Thearchdeaconandthebellringer, aswehavealreadysaid, werebutlittlelovedbythepopulacegreatandsmall, , whichfrequentlyhappened, andwhentheywereseentraversingincompany, thevaletbehindthemaster, thecold, narrow, andgloomystreetsoftheblockofNotre-Dame, morethanoneevilword, morethanoneironicalquaver, morethanoneinsultingjestgreetedthemontheirway, unlessClaudeFrollo, whichwasrarelythecase, walkedwithheaduprightandraised, showinghissevereandalmostaugustbrowtothedumbfoundedjeerers.
Bothwereintheirquarterlike "thepoets" ofwhomRégnierspeaks,—
"Allsortsofpersonsrunafterpoets, Aswarblersflyshriekingafterowls."
SometimesamischievouschildriskedhisskinandbonesfortheineffablepleasureofdrivingapinintoQuasimodo', ayounggirl, moreboldandsaucythanwasfitting, brushedthepriest'sblackrobe, singinginhisfacethesardonicditty, "niche, niche, thedeviliscaught." Sometimesagroupofsqualidoldcrones, squattinginafileundertheshadowofthestepstoaporch, scoldednoisilyasthearchdeaconandthebellringerpassed, andtossedthemthisencouragingwelcome, withacurse: "Hum! there'safellowwhosesoulismadeliketheotherone'sbody!" Orabandofschoolboysandstreeturchins, playinghop-scotch, roseinabodyandsalutedhimclassically, withsomecryinLatin: "Eia! eia! Claudiuscumclaudo!"
, andClaudewastoodreamy.
