第66章 CHAPTER V(2)

It is certain that the archdeacon often visited the cemetery of the Saints-Innocents， where， it is true， his father and mother had been buried， with other victims of the plague of 1466； but that he appeared far less devout before the cross of their grave than before the strange figures with which the tomb of Nicolas Flamel and Claude Pernelle， erected just beside it， was loaded.

It is certain that he had frequently been seen to pass along the Rue des Lombards， and furtively enter a little house which formed the corner of the Rue des Ecrivans and the Rue Marivault. It was the house which Nicolas Flamel had built， where he had died about 1417， and which， constantly deserted since that time， had already begun to fall in ruins，--so greatly had the hermetics and the alchemists of all countries wasted away the walls， merely by carving their names upon them. Some neighbors even affirm that they had once seen， through an air-hole， Archdeacon Claude excavating， turning over， digging up the earth in the two cellars， whose supports had been daubed with numberless couplets and hieroglyphics by Nicolas Flamel himself. It was supposed that Flamel had buried the philosopher's stone in the cellar； and the alchemists， for the space of two centuries， from Magistri to Father Pacifique， never ceased to worry the soil until the house， so cruelly ransacked and turned over， ended by falling into dust beneath their feet.

Again， it is certain that the archdeacon had been seized with a singular passion for the symbolical door of Notre-Dame， that page of a conjuring book written in stone， by Bishop Guillaume de Paris， who has， no doubt， been damned for having affixed so infernal a frontispiece to the sacred poem chanted by the rest of the edifice. Archdeacon Claude had the credit also of having fathomed the mystery of the colossus of Saint Christopher， and of that lofty， enigmatical statue which then stood at the entrance of the vestibule， and which the people， in derision， called "Monsieur Legris." But， what every one might have noticed was the interminable hours which he often employed， seated upon the parapet of the area in front of the church， in contemplating the sculptures of the front； examining now the foolish virgins with their lamps reversed， now the wise virgins with their lamps upright； again， calculating the angle of vision of that raven which belongs to the left front， and which is looking at a mysterious point inside the church， where is concealed the philosopher's stone， if it be not in the cellar of Nicolas Flamel.

It was， let us remark in passing， a singular fate for the Church of Notre-Dame at that epoch to be so beloved， in two different degrees， and with so much devotion， by two beings so dissimilar as Claude and Quasimodo. Beloved by one， a sort of instinctive and savage half-man， for its beauty， for its stature， for the harmonies which emanated from its magnificent ensemble； beloved by the other， a learned and passionate imagination， for its myth， for the sense which it contains， for the symbolism scattered beneath the sculptures of its front，--like the first text underneath the second in a palimpsest，--in a word， for the enigma which it is eternally propounding to the understanding.

Furthermore， it is certain that the archdeacon had established himself in that one of the two towers which looks upon the Grève， just beside the frame for the bells， a very secret little cell， into which no one， not even the bishop， entered without his leave， it was said. This tiny cell had formerly been made almost at the summit of the tower， among the ravens' nests， by Bishop Hugo de Besan？on* who had wrought sorcery there in his day. What that cell contained， no one knew； but from the strand of the Terrain， at night， there was often seen to appear， disappear， and reappear at brief and regular intervals， at a little dormer window opening upon the back of the tower， a certain red， intermittent， singular light which seemed to follow the panting breaths of a bellows， and to proceed from a flame， rather than from a light. In the darkness， at that height， it produced a singular effect； and the goodwives said： "There's the archdeacon blowing！ hell is sparkling up yonder！"* Hugo II. de Bisuncio， 1326-1332.