The priest was not listening.'But she must be got out of there，'he murmured.'The decree has to be carried out within three days—That Quasimodo！Women have very depraved tastes！'He raised his voice.'M re Pierre，I have thought it well over；there is but one means of saving her.'
'And what is that？For my part I can suggest nothing.'
'Hark you，M re Pierre；remember that you owe your life to her.I will impart my idea frankly to you.The church is watched night and day；no one is allowed to come out who has not been seen to go in.Thus you can enter.You shall come；I will take you to her.You will change clothes with her.She will take your doublet，you will take her petticoats.'
'So far so good，'observed the philosopher.'And after？'
'After？Why，she will go out in your clothes，and you will stay there in hers.They will hang you，perhaps，but she will be saved.'
Gringoire scratched his ear with a very serious air.'Now that，'said he，'is an idea that would never have occurred to me.'
At Dom Claude's unexpected proposal，the open and benign countenance of the poet became suddenly overcast，like a smiling landscape of Italy when a nasty squall of wind drives a cloud against the sun.
'Well，Gringoire，what say you to this plan？'
'I say that they will not hang me perhaps，but that they will hang me indubitably.'
'That does not concern us.'
'The plague it doesn't！'
'She saved your life.It is a debt you ought to pay.'
'There is many another I don't pay.'
'M re Pierre，this must be done.'The Archdeacon spoke imperiously.
'Hark you，Dom Claude，'returned the poet in consternation.'You cling to that idea，but you are wrong.I see no reason why I should hang instead of another.'
'What is there to attract you so firmly to life？'
'Ah，a thousand things！'
'What，pray？'
'What—why，the air，the sky，the morning，the evening，moonlight，my good friends the vagabonds，our pranks with the women，the fine architecture of Paris to study，three important books to write—one of them against the bishop and his mills；oh，more than I can say.Anaxagoras said that he was in the world merely to admire the sun.And besides，I enjoy the felicity of passing the whole of my days，from morning till night，in the company of a man of genius—myself，to wit—and that is very agreeable.'
'Oh，empty rattle-pate！'growled the Archdeacon.'And who，prithee，preserved to thee that life thou deemest so pleasant？Whose gift is it that thou art breathing the air，looking at the sky，hast still the power to divert thy feather-brained spirit with folly and nonsense？But for her，where wouldst thou be？Thou wouldst let her die，then—her through whom thou livest？Let her die—that being so lovely，so sweet，so adorable—a creature necessary to the light of the world，more divine than God himself！whilst thou，half philosopher，half fool—mere outline of something，a species of vegetable that imagines it walks and thinks—thou wilt go on living with the life thou hast stolen from her，useless as a torch at noonday？Come，Gringoire，a little pity！be generous in thy turn；'twas she that showed thee the way.'
The priest spoke vehemently.Gringoire listened at first with an air of indecision；presently he was touched，and ended by ****** a tragic grimace which made his wan visage like that of a new-born infant with the colic.
'You are in truth most pathetic，'said he，wiping away a tear.'Well，I'll think on it—'tis an odd idea of yours，that.After all，'he pursued，after a moment's silence，'who knows；may-be they would not hang me—'tis not every betrothal that ends in marriage.When they find me in my hiding-place thus grotesquely disguised in coif and kirtle，it is very possible they will burst out laughing.On the other hand，even if they do hang me—well，the rope is a death like any other—nay，rather it is not a death like any other—it is a death worthy of a sage who has swung gently all his life between the extremes—a death which，like the mind of the true sceptic，is neither flesh nor fish；a death thoroughly expressive of Pyrrhoni** and hesitation，which holds the mean between heaven and earth，which holds you in suspension.'Tis the death of a philosopher，and to which mayhap I was predestined.It is magnificent to die as one has lived！'
The priest interrupted him.'So it is a bargain，then？'
'When all's said and done，'pursued Gringoire with exaltation，'what is death？An uncomfortable moment—a tollgate—the transit from little to nothing.Some one having asked Cercidas of Megalopolis whether he could die willingly，he replied，‘Wherefore no or after my death I should see those great men：Pythagoras among the philosophers，Heca s among the historians，Homer among the poets，Olympus among the musicians.''
The Archdeacon held out his hand.'It is settled，then？You will come to-morrow？'
This action brought Gringoire down to the realities.
'Faith no！'said he in the tone of a man who awakens.
'Let myself be hanged？—'tis too absurd！I will not.'
'God be with you，then！'and the Archdeacon muttered between his teeth，'We shall meet again！'
'I have no desire to meet that devil of a man again，'thought Gringoire.He ran after Dom Claude.'Hark you，Monsieur the Archdeacon，no offence between old friends！You are interested in this girl—my wife I mean—that's very well.You have devised a stratagem for getting her safely out of Notre-Dame，but your plan is highly unpleasant for me，Gringoire.If I only had another to suggest！—Let me tell you that a most luminous inspiration has this instant come to me.How if I had a practicable scheme for extricating her from this tight place without exposing my own neck to the slightest danger of a slip-knot，what would you say？Would not that suffice you？Is it absolutely necessary that I should be hanged to satisfy you？'
The priest was tearing at the buttons of his soutane with impatience.'Oh，babbling stream of words！Out with thy plan！'
