A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE. He will pass through my street On his return from the pillory; And it is Pierrat Forterne Who will give us the signal. TOWN-CRIER. In the King's name, whom God protect! The man you see here, will be put Under a strong guard, In the pillory for one hour. CHORUS. Down with him! Down with him! The hunchback, the deaf, the one-eyed creature This Barabbas! I believe, s'death! he's looking at us. Down with the sorcerer! He makes faces, he kicks; He makes dogs bark in the streets. Punish the rascal well! Double the whip and the penalty. QUASIMODO. Drink! CHORUS. Hang him! QUASIMODO. Drink! CHORUS. Be accursed! [_Esmeralda, some instants ago, joined the crowd. She perceives Quasimodo, first with surprise, then with pity. Suddenly, in the midst of all the noise, she mounts the pillory, unfastens a little cup which she carries on her belt, and gives a drink to Quasimodo._ CHORUS. What are you doing, beautiful girl? Leave Quasimodo alone! When Beelzebub roasts, Nobody gives him water. [_She comes down. The archers unfasten Quasimodo and take him away._ CHORUS. He abducted a woman! Who? This dolt! It is terrible, it is infamous, It is too much! Do you hear, my friends? Quasimodo Dared to go hunting on Cupid's domain. SCENE II _A magnificent drawing-room in which people are making preparations for a festival._ Phoebus, Fleur-de-lys, Madame Aloise De Gondelaurier MADAME ALOISE. Phoebus, my future son-in-law, listen to me. I am fond of you. Be master here, as if you were another self. Look to it that every one is gay to-night. And you, my daughter, come, get ready. You will be the most beautiful at this festival, Be also the most happy. [_She goes up stage and gives orders to the servants, who continue the preparations._ FLEUR-DE-LYS. Sir, since the other week, We have hardly seen you twice! This festival brings you back. How fortunate for us! PHOEBUS. Don't scold, I beg of you! FLEUR-DE-LYS. I understand. Phoebus forgets me! PHOEBUS. I swear to you-- FLEUR-DE-LYS. Don't swear! They only swear who deceive. PHOEBUS. Forget you? What folly! Are you not the most fair? Am I not the most loving? PHOEBUS (_aside_). My beautiful betrothed Is out of sorts to-day; Suspicion is in her mind. What a pity! Beauties, the lovers you treat ill Go elsewhere. You can do more with pleasure Than with tears. FLEUR-DE-LYS (_aside_). To betray me, his betrothed, Who belong to him! I, who have only him to think of And worry about! Ah! whether he is away or here, What grief! Present, he scorns my joy; Absent, my tears. FLEUR-DE-LYS. Phoebus, the scarf that I worked for you-- What have you done with it? I don't see it. PHOEBUS (_troubled_). The scarf? I don't know! [_Aside._] Good God! unlucky chance! FLEUR-DE-LYS.