Victor Marie Hugo (1802–1885). Notre Dame de Paris.
The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction. 1917.
Book X
VI. The Pass-Word
ON quitting the Bastille, Gringoire fled down the Rue Saint-Antoine with the speed of a runaway horse. Arrived at the Baudoyer Gate, he made straight for the stone cross in the middle of the square as if he discerned in the dark the figure of a man, clothed and hooded in black, sitting upon its steps.
“It is no fault of mine,” returned Gringoire, “but of the watch and the King. I’ve had a narrow escape. I always miss being hanged within an ace. It is my predestination.”
“Good! Without it we could not get through to the church; the truands block the streets. Luckily, they seem to have met with some opposition. We may yet arrive in time.”
“There is a small door at the back of the cloister opening on to the Terrain and the waterside. I have got the key, and I moored a boat there this morning.”
