That appeared to excite the curiosity of the numerous group which had congregated about the wooden bed. The group was formed for the most part of women.

In the first row, and among those who were most bent over the bed, four were noticeable, who, from their clothes, were recognizable as attached to some devout sisterhood. They were Agn`es la Herme, Jehanne de la Tarme, Henriette la Gaulti`ere, Gauch`ere la Violette, all four widows, all four dames of the Chapel 'Etienne Haudry.

“What is this, sister?” said Agn`es to Gauch`ere, gazing at the little creature.

“What is to become of us,” said Jehanne, “if that is the way children are made now?”

“’Tis not a child, Agn`es.”

“’Tis an abortion of a monkey,” remarked Gauch`ere.

“’Tis a miracle,” interposed Henriette la Gaulti`ere.

“He yells loud enough to deafen a chanter,” continued Gauch`ere.

“I imagine,” said Agn`es la Herme, “that it is a beast, an animal,—something not Christian, in short, which ought to be thrown into the fire or into the water.”

It was, in fact, not a new-born child. It was a very angular and very lively little mass. Its head was deformed enough; one beheld only a forest of red hair, one eye, a mouth, and teeth. The eye wept, the mouth cried, and the teeth seemed to ask only to be allowed to bite.

Many people stopped to see the child. Among them was a young priest. He had been listening for everyone who stopped for a while. He had a severe face, with a large brow, and a profound glance. Eventually, he thrust the crowd silently aside, and proclaimed that he would be the one to adopt the child.

He took it in his cassock and carried it off. The spectators followed him with frightened glances. A moment later, he had disappeared through the door, which led from the church to the cloister.

When the first surprise was over, one of the spectators bent down to the ear of another,—

“I told you so, sister,—that young clerk, Monsieur Claude Frollo, is a sorcerer.”

In fact, Claude Frollo was no common person.

He belonged to one of those middle-class families which were called the high bourgeoise or the petty nobility.

He had been destined from infancy, by his parents, to the ecclesiastical profession. He had been taught to read in Latin; he had been trained to keep his eyes on the ground and to speak low. While still a child, his father had cloistered him in the college of Torchi in the University.

Frollo was a sad, grave, serious child, who studied ardently, and learned quickly. Thus, at sixteen years of age, he might have held his own against a father of the church in mystical theology; in canonical theology, against a father of the councils; in scholastic theology, against a doctor of Sorbonne.

Theology conquered, he had plunged into decretals. Then he flung himself upon medicine, on the liberal arts. At the age of eighteen, he had made his way through the four faculties; it seemed to the young man that life had but one sole object: learning.

The excessive heat of the summer of 1466 caused that grand outburst of the plague which carried off more than forty thousand souls in Paris. The rumor spread in the University that the Rue Tirechappe was especially devastated by it. It was there that Claude’s parents resided. The young scholar rushed in great alarm to the paternal mansion. When he entered it, he found that both father and mother had died on the preceding day. A very young brother of his, was still alive and crying abandoned in his cradle. This was all that remained to Claude of his family. Up to that moment, he had lived only in science; he now began to live in life.

This catastrophe was a crisis in Claude’s existence. Orphaned, the eldest, head of the family at the age of nineteen, he felt himself rudely recalled from school to the realities of this world. Then, moved with pity, he was seized with passion and devotion towards the child, his brother.

This young brother, without mother or father, this little child which had fallen abruptly from heaven into his arms, made a new man of him. He threw himself into the love for his little Jehan with the passion of a character already profound, ardent, concentrated; that poor frail creature, pretty, fair-haired, rosy, and curly, touched him to the bottom of his heart. He was more than a brother to the child; he became a mother to him.

Little Jehan had lost his mother while he was still at the breast; Claude gave him to a nurse. There was a miller’s wife there who was nursing a fine child; it was not far from the university, and Claude carried the little Jehan to her in his own arms.

From that time forth, feeling that he had a burden to bear, he took life very seriously. The thought of his little brother became not only his recreation, but the object of his studies. He resolved to consecrate himself entirely to a future for which he was responsible in the sight of God, and never to have any other wife, any other child than the happiness and fortune of his brother. At the age of twenty, he was a priest, and served as the youngest of the chaplains of Notre-Dame.