, presented to him a frightful group; and the more he
concentrated what attention and thought was left to him, the more he
beheld them grow, in accordance with a fantastic progression, the one in
grace, in charm, in beauty, in light, the other in deformity and horror;
so that at last la Esmeralda appeared to him like a star, the gibbet
like an enormous, fleshless arm.

One remarkable fact is, that during the whole of this torture, the idea
of dying did not seriously occur to him. The wretch was made so. He
clung to life. Perhaps he really saw hell beyond it.

Meanwhile, the day continued to decline. The living being which still
existed in him reflected vaguely on retracing its steps. He believed
himself to be far away from Paris; on taking his bearings, he perceived
that he had only circled the enclosure of the University. The spire of
Saint-Sulpice, and the three lofty needles of Saint Germain-des-Pres,
rose above the horizon on his right. He turned his steps in that
direction. When he heard the brisk challenge of the men-at-arms of the
abbey, around the crenelated, circumscribing wall of Saint-Germain, he
turned aside, took a path which presented itself between the abbey and
the lazar-house of the bourg, and at the expiration of a few minutes
found himself on the verge of the Pre-aux-Clercs. This meadow was
celebrated by reason of the brawls which went on there night and day;
it was the hydra of the poor monks of Saint-Germain: _quod mouachis
Sancti-Germaini pratensis hydra fuit, clericis nova semper dissidiorum
capita suscitantibus_. The archdeacon was afraid of meeting some one
there; he feared every human countenance; he had just avoided the
University and the Bourg Saint-Germain; he wished to re-enter the
streets as late as possible. He skirted the Pre-aux-Clercs, took the
deserted path which separated it from the Dieu-Neuf, and at last reached
the water's edge. There Dom Claude found a boatman, who, for a few
farthings in Parisian coinage, rowed him up the Seine as far as the
point of the city, and landed him on that tongue of abandoned land
where the reader has already beheld Gringoire dreaming, and which
was prolonged beyond the king's gardens, parallel to the Ile du
Passeur-aux-Vaches.

The monotonous rocking of the boat and the ripple of the water had, in
some sort, quieted the unhappy Claude. When the boatman had taken his
departure, he remained standing stupidly on the strand, staring straight
before him