CHAPTER I

The Great Hall
PRECISELY three hundred and forty-eight years, six months and nineteen days ago1 Paris was awakened by the sound of the pealing of all the bells within the triple enclosing walls of the city, the University, and the town.
Yet the 6th of January, 1482, was not a day of which his¬ tory has preserved the record. There was nothing of peculiar note in the event which set all the bells and the good people of Paris thus in motion from early dawn. It was neither an assault by Picards or Burgundians, nor a holy image carried in procession, nor a riot of the students in the vineyard of Laas, nor the entry into the city of “our most dread Lord the King,” nor even a fine stringing up of thieves, male and female, at the Justice of Paris. Neither was it the unex¬ pected arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some foreign ambassador with his beplumed and gold-laced retinue. Scarce two days had elapsed since the last cavalcade of this description, that of the Flemish envoys charged with the mis¬ sion to conclude the marriage between the Dauphin and Mar¬ garet of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of Monsieur the Cardinal of Bourbon, who, to please the King, had been obliged to extend a gracious recep¬ tion to this boorish company of Flemish burgomasters, and entertain them in his Hôtel de. Bourbon with a “most pleasant
1 Notre Dame de Paris was begun July 30, 1830.
1
VICTOR HUGO
o
morality play, drollery, and farce,” while a torrent of rain frenched the splendid tapestries at his door.
The 6th of January, which “set the whole population of Paris in a stir,” as Jehan de Troyes relates, was the date of the double festival — united since time immemorial — of the Three Kings, and the Feast of Fools.
On this day there was invariably a bonfire on the Place de Grève, a may-pole in front of the Chapelle de Braque, and a mystery-play at the Palais de Justice, as had been proclaimed with blare of trumpets on the preceding day in all the streets by Monsieur de Provost’s men, arrayed in tabards of violet camlet with great white crosses on the breast.
The stream of people accordingly made their way in the morning from all parts of the town, their shops and houses being closed, to one or other of these points named. Each one had chosen his share of the entertainments — some the bonfire, some the may-pole, others the Mystery. To the credit of the traditional good sense of the Paris “cit” be it said that the majority of the spectators directed their steps towards the bonfire, which was entirely seasonable, or the Mystery, which was to be performed under roof and cover in the great Hall of the Palais de Justice, and were unanimous in leaving the poor scantily decked may-pole to shiver alone under the Janu¬ ary sky in the cemetery of the Chapelle de Braque.
The crowd flocked thickest in the approaches to the Palais, as it was known that the Flemish envoys intended to be pres¬ ent at the performance of the Mystery, and the election of the Pope of Fools, which was likewise to take place in the great Hall.
It was no easy matter that day to penetrate into the great Hall, then reputed the largest roofed-in space in the world. (It is true that, at that time, Sauvai had not yet measured the great hall of the Castle of Montargis.) To the gazers from the windows, the square in front of the Palais, packed as it was with people, presented the aspect of a lake into which five or six streets, like so many river mouths, were each mo¬ ment pouring fresh floods of heads. The ever-swelling waves of this multitude broke against the angles of the houses, which projected here and there, like promontories, into the irregular basin of the Place.
NOTRE DAME DE PARIS
3
In the centre of the high Gothic1 façade of the Palais was the great flight of steps, incessantly occupied by a double stream ascending and descending, which, after being broken by the intermediate landing, spread in broad waves over the two lateral flights.
Down this great stair-case the crowd poured continuously into the Place like a cascade into a lake, the shouts, the laughter, the trampling of thousands of feet making a mighty clamour and tumult. From time to time the uproar re¬ doubled, the current which bore the crowd towards the grand stairs was choked, thrown back, and formed into eddies, when some archer thrust back the crowd, or the horse of one of the provost’s men kicked out to restore order; an ad¬ mirable tradition which has been faithfully handed down through the centuries to our present gendarmerie of Paris.
Every door and window and roof swarmed with good, placid, honest burgher faces gazing at the Palais and at the crowd, and asking no better amusement. For there are many people in Paris quite content to be the spectators of specta¬ tors; and to us a wall, behind which something is going on, is a sufficiently exciting spectacle.
If we of the nineteenth century could mingle in imagina¬ tion with these Parisians of the fifteenth century, could push our way with that hustling, elbowing, stamping crowd into the immense Hall of the Palais, so cramped on the 6th of January, 1482, the scene would not be without interest or charm for us, and we would find ourselves surrounded by things so old that to us they would appear quite new.
With the reader’s permission we will attempt to evoke in thought the impression he would have experienced in cross¬ ing with us the threshold of that great Hall and amid that throng in surcoat, doublet, and kirtle.
At first there is nothing but a dull roar in our ears and a dazzle in our eyes. Overhead, a roof of double Gothic arches, panelled with carved wood, painted azure blue, and diapered with golden fleur de lis; underfoot, a pavement in
1 The term Gothic used in its customary sense is quite incorrect, but is hallowed by tradition. We accept it, therefore, and use it like the rest of the world, to characterize the architecture of the latter half of the Middle Ages, of which the pointed arch forms the central idea, and which suc¬ ceeds the architecture of the first period, of which the round a a is the prevailing feature. — Author’s note.
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VICTOR HUGO
alternate squares of black and white. A few paces off is an enormous pillar, and another — seven in all down the length of the hall, supporting in the centre line the springing arches of the double groining. Around the first four pillars are stalls all glittering with glassware and trinkets, and around the last three are oaken benches, worn smooth and shining by the breeches of the litigants and the gowns of the at¬ torneys. Ranged along the lofty walls, between the doors, between the windows, between the pillars, is the interminable series of statues of the rulers of France from Pharamond downward; the ‘“Rois faineants,” with drooping eyes and indolent hanging arms ; the valiant warrior kings, with head and hands boldly uplifted in the sight of heaven. The tall, pointed windows glow in a thousand colours; at the wide entrances to the Hall are richly carved doors ; and the whole — roof, pillars, walls, cornices, doors, statues— is resplendent from top to bottom in a coating of blue and gold, already somewhat tarnished at the period of which we write, but which had almost entirely disappeared under dust and cob¬ webs in the year of grace 1549, when Du Breuil alluded to it in terms of admiration, but from hearsay only.
Now let the reader picture to himself that immense, oblong Hall under the wan light of a January morning and invaded by a motley, noisy crowd, pouring along the walls and eddy¬ ing round the pillars, and he will have some idea of the scene as a whole, the peculiarities of which we will presently en¬ deavour to describe more in detail.
Assuredly if Ravaillac had not assassinated Henri IV there would have been no documents relating to his trial to be de¬ posited in the Record office of the Palais de Justice; no ac¬ complices interested in causing those documents to disappear, and consequently no incendiaries compelled, in default of a better expedient, to set fire to the Record office in order to destroy the documents, and to burn down the Palais de Justice in order to burn the Record office — in short, no con¬ flagration of 1618.
The old Palais would still be standing with its great Hall, and I could say to the reader “Go and see for yourself,” and we should both be exempt of the necessity, I of writing, he of reading this description, such as it is. All
NOTRE DAME DE PARIS
5
of which goes to prove the novel truth, that great events have incalculable consequences.
To be sure, it is^quite possible that Ravaillac had no ac¬ complices, also that, even if he had, they were in no way accessory to the fire of 1618. There exist two other highly plausible explanations. In the first place, the great fiery star a foot wide and an ell high, which, as every mother’s son knows, fell from heaven on to the Palais on the 7th of March just after midnight; and secondly, Théophile’s quatrain, which runs:
“Certes, ce fut un triste jeu Quand à Paris dame Justice,
Pour avoir mangé trop d’épice Se mit tout le palais en feu.” 1
Whatever one may think of this triple explanation — politi¬ cal, physical, and poetical — of the burning of the Palais de Justice in 1618, about one fact there is unfortunately no doubt, and that is the fire itself.
Thanks to this disaster, and more still to the successive restorations which destroyed what the fire had spared, very little remains of this first residence of the Kings of France, of this original palace of the Louvre, so old even in the time of Philip the Fair, that in it they sought for traces of the magnificent buildings erected by King Robert and described by Helgaldus.
Nearly all has gone. What has become of the Chancery Chamber in which St. Louis “consummated his marriage”? what of the garden where he administered justice, “clad in a jerkin of camlet, a surcoat of coarse woollen stuff without sleeves, and over all a mantle of black ‘sandal,’ and reclining on a carpet with Joinville” ? Where is the chamber of the Emperor Sigismund? where that of Charles IV? that of John Lackland? Where is the flight of steps from which Charles VI proclaimed his “Edict of Pardon”? the flag-stone whereon, in the presence of the Dauphin,
1 In truth it was a sorry game When in Paris Dame Justice,
Having gorged herself with spice,
Set all her palace in a flame.
The application of these lines depends, unfortunately, on an untrar»: itable play on the word épice, which means both spice and lawyers’ fees.
6
VICTOR HUGO
Marcel strangled Robert de Clermont and the Marshal de Champagne? the wicket where the bulls of the anti-Pope Benedict were torn up, and through which the bearers of them marched out, mitred and coped in mock state, to pub- licly make the amende honorable through the streets of Paris? and the great Hall with its blue and gold, its Gothic windows, its statues, its pillars, its immense vaulted roof so profusely carved — and the gilded chamber— and the stone lion kneeling at the door with head abased and tail between its legs, like the lions of Solomon’s throne, in that attitude of humility which beseems Strength in the presence of Justice? and the beautiful doors, and the gorgeous-hued windows, and the wrought iron-work which discouraged Biscornette — and the delicate cabinet-work of Du Haney? How has time, how has man, served these marvels ? What have they given us in exchange for all this, for this great page of Gallic history, for all this Gothic art? The uncouth, surbased arches of