Quasimodo — The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

Heads come through the broken rose window, one grimace after another, and the hall becomes a single shout. The cardinal leaves with his suite. Only Guillaume Rym notices. Jehan Frollo still yells from his pillar. Gringoire tells the actors to go on, thinks of competing, and decides that poetry must win instead. His only listener is Renauld Chateau, guardian of the seals of the Châtelet, dozing on the rail, who calls the piece tolerably jolly.

A roar ends the talk. The winning face is no mask. Red hair, a hump before and behind, legs that meet only at the knees, one eye under a wart, a horseshoe mouth: the crowd knows him at once and names Quasimodo, bellringer of Notre-Dame. Women hide. He throws Robin Poussepain ten paces without a word. Coppenole finds that he is deaf. Beggars and clerks put the cardboard tiara and mock robe on him, set him on a litter, and carry him out to circle the galleries and then the streets.