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“A spirit passed before my face....”
“It struck midnight. The priest thought of midday. It was twelve o’clock again. ‘Oh!’ He murmured to himself, ‘she must be cold by now!’
Suddenly a puff of wind blew his lamp out, and at almost the same time he saw appearing, at the opposite corner of the tower, a shadow, a patch of white, a shape, a woman. He shuddered. By the woman’s side was a little goat, its bleating mingling with the final bleat of the clock.
He found the strength to look. It was her.
She was pale, she was sombre. Her hair felt over her shoulders as it had that morning. But there was no longer a rope round her neck, and her hands were no longer bound. She was free, she was dead.
She was dressed in white, and had a white veil over her head.
She came towards him, slowly, looking at the sky. The supernatural goat followed her. He felt as he were made of stone, too heavy to tlee. With each step she took forward, he took one back, and that was all. He thus returned beneath the dark vaulting of the staircase. He went ice-cold at the thought she might perhaps come there too; if she had done so, he would have died of terror.
She did indeed arrive in front of the staircase door, stopped there for a few moments, gazed into the darkness, but apparently without seeing the priest, and went on past. She looked taller to him than when she had been alive, he saw the moon through her white robe; he heard her breathing.
When she had gone by he started down the stairs again, moving as slowly as he had seen the spectre move, believing himself to be a spectre, haggard, hair standing on end, his hand still holding the extinguished lamp; and as he went down the spiral stairs, he distinctly heard in his ear a voice laughing and repeating: “A spirit passed before my face; I heard a small breath; the hair of my flesh stood up”
Victor Hugo “Notre Dame de Paris”
“It struck midnight. The priest thought of midday. It was twelve o’clock again. ‘Oh!’ He murmured to himself, ‘she must be cold by now!’
Suddenly a puff of wind blew his lamp out, and at almost the same time he saw appearing, at the opposite corner of the tower, a shadow, a patch of white, a shape, a woman. He shuddered. By the woman’s side was a little goat, its bleating mingling with the final bleat of the clock.
He found the strength to look. It was her.
She was pale, she was sombre. Her hair felt over her shoulders as it had that morning. But there was no longer a rope round her neck, and her hands were no longer bound. She was free, she was dead.
She was dressed in white, and had a white veil over her head.
She came towards him, slowly, looking at the sky. The supernatural goat followed her. He felt as he were made of stone, too heavy to tlee. With each step she took forward, he took one back, and that was all. He thus returned beneath the dark vaulting of the staircase. He went ice-cold at the thought she might perhaps come there too; if she had done so, he would have died of terror.
She did indeed arrive in front of the staircase door, stopped there for a few moments, gazed into the darkness, but apparently without seeing the priest, and went on past. She looked taller to him than when she had been alive, he saw the moon through her white robe; he heard her breathing.
When she had gone by he started down the stairs again, moving as slowly as he had seen the spectre move, believing himself to be a spectre, haggard, hair standing on end, his hand still holding the extinguished lamp; and as he went down the spiral stairs, he distinctly heard in his ear a voice laughing and repeating: “A spirit passed before my face; I heard a small breath; the hair of my flesh stood up”
Victor Hugo “Notre Dame de Paris”
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Stunning! 