The Dramas of Victor Hugo: Mary Tudor, Marion de Lorme, Esmeralda Part 95

ESMERALDA

_ACT I_

SCENE.--_The Court of Miracles. It is night. A crowd of vagrants.

Noisy dancing. Male and female beggars in different att.i.tudes of their profession. The King of Thune on his cask. Fires, lights, torches. In the shadow a circle of wretched dwellings_

SCENE I

_Claude Frollo, Clopin Frouillefou, then Esmeralda, then Quasimodo. The Vagrants_

CHORUS OF VAGRANTS.

Long live Clopin! Long live the King of Thune!

Long live the rogues of Paris.

Let us strike our blows at dusk-- The hour when all the cats are drunk.

Let us dance! Defy Pope and bull, And let us laugh in our skins, Whether April wets or June burns The feathers in our caps.

Let us smell from afar The shot of the avenging archer, Or the bag of money which pa.s.ses On the back of the traveler.

In the light of the moon, We will go dance with the spirits.

Long live Clopin, King of Thune!

Long live the rogues of Paris!

CLAUDE FROLLO (_apart behind a pillar in a corner of the stage. He is covered with a long cloak which hides his priestly garb_).

In the midst of this infamous band What matters the sigh of a soul?

I suffer! Oh, never did fiercer flame Burn in the bowels of a volcano. [_Esmeralda enters, dancing._

CHORUS.

There she is! There she is! It is she--Esmeralda!

CLAUDE FROLLO (_aside_).

It is she! oh, yes--'tis she!

Wherefore, relentless fate, Made you her so beautiful, Me--so unfortunate?

[_She reaches the center of the stage. The Vagrants form an admiring circle around her._

ESMERALDA.

An orphan am I, Child of woe, To you I turn And flowers throw!

In my wild joy Sad sighs abide; I show a smile, The tears I hide.

Poor girl--I dance Where brooklets run, As chirp the birds My song flows on: I am the dove Which, hurt, must fall; Over my cradle Hangs death's pall.

CHORUS.

Young girl, dance on!

More gentle you make us.

Take us for family, And play with us, As stoops the nightingale Unto the sea, Teasing its waves To ecstasy.

'Tis the young girl-- Child of woe, When beams her eye Grief must go.

She's like the bee Which trembling flies To the flower's heart, Its Paradise.

Young girl, dance on!

More gentle you make us.

Take us for family, And play with us!

CLAUDE FROLLO (_aside_).

Tremble, young girl-- The priest is jealous.

[_Claude attempts to draw near to Esmeralda; she turns away from him with a kind of horror. The procession of the Pope of Fools enters.

Torches, lanterns and music. In the middle of the procession, upon a litter surrounded with candles, Quasimodo, decked with cope and miter, is carried._

CHORUS.

Salute him, clerks of Vasoche!

Sh.e.l.l-heaps, lubbers, beggars!

Salute him, all of you! He comes.

Behold the Pope of Fools!

CLAUDE FROLLO (_perceiving Quasimodo, and starting toward him with a gesture of anger_).

Quasimodo! What a strange part to play!

Profanation! Here--Quasimodo!

QUASIMODO.

Great G.o.d! what do I hear?

CLAUDE FROLLO.

Come here, I tell you.

QUASIMODO (_jumping from the litter_).

Here I am!

CLAUDE FROLLO.

Be anathematized!

QUASIMODO.

G.o.d! it is himself!