The sun had set behind the lofty Tour-de-Nesle.It was the hour of twilight.The sky was pallid，the river was white.Between these two pale surfaces，the left bank of the Seine，on which his eyes were fixed，reared its dark mass，and，dwindling to a point in the perspective，pierced the mists of the horizon like a black arrow.It was covered with houses，their dim silhouettes standing out sharply against the pale background of sky and river.Here and there windows began to twinkle like holes in a brasier.The huge black obelisk thus isolated between the two white expanses of sky and river—particularly wide at this point—made a singular impression on Dom Claude，such as a man would experience lying on his back at the foot of Strassburg Cathedral and gazing up at the immense spire piercing the dim twilight of the sky above his head.Only here it was Claude who stood erect and the spire that lay at his feet；but as the river，by reflecting the sky，deepened infinitely the abyss beneath him，the vast promontory seemed springing as boldly into the void as any cathedral spire.The impression on him was therefore the same，and moreover，in this respect，stronger and more profound，in that not only was it the spire of Strassburg Cathedral，but a spire two leagues high—something unexampled，gigantic，immeasurable—an edifice such as mortal eye had never yet beheld—a Tower of Babel.The chimneys of the houses，the battlemented walls，the carved roofs and gables，the spire of the Augustines，the Tour-de-Nesle，all the projections that broke the line of the colossal obelisk heightened the illusion by their bizarre effect，presenting to the eye all the effect of a florid and fantastic sculpture.
In this condition of hallucination Claude was persuaded that with living eye he beheld the veritable steeple of hell.The myriad lights scattered over the entire height of the fearsome tower were to him so many openings into the infernal fires—the voices and sounds which rose from it the shrieks and groans of the damned.Fear fell upon him，he clapped his hands to his ears that he might hear no more，turned his back that he might not see，and with long strides fled away from the frightful vision.
But the vision was within him.
When he came into the streets again，the people passing to and fro in the light of the shop-fronts appeared to him like a moving company of spectres round about him.There were strange roarings in his ears—wild imaginings disturbed his brain.He saw not the houses，nor road，nor vehicles，neither men nor women，but a chaos of indeterminate objects merging into one another at their point of contact.At the corner of the Rule de la Barillerie he passed a chandler's shop，over the front of which hung，according to immemorial custom，a row of tin hoops garnished with wooden candles，which swayed in the wind and clashed together like castanets.He seemed to hear the skeletons on the gibbets of Montfaucon rattling their bones together.
'Oh，'he muttered，'the night wind drives them one against another，and mingles the clank of their chains with the rattle of their bones！May-be she is there among them！'
Confused and bewildered，he knew not where he went.A few steps farther on he found himself on the Pont Saint-Michel.There was a light in a low window close by：he approached it.Through the cracked panes he saw into a dirty room which awakened some dim recollection in his mind.By the feeble rays of a squalid lamp he discerned a young man，with a fair and joyous face，who with much boisterous laughter was embracing a tawdry，shamelessly dressed girl.Beside the lamp sat an old woman spinning and singing in a quavering voice.In the pauses of the young man's laughter the priest caught fragments of the old woman's song.It was weird and horrible：
'Growl，Grève！bark，Grève！
Spin，spin，my distaff brave！
Let the hangman have his cord That whistles in the prison yard，
Growl，Grève！bark，Grève！
'Hemp that makes the pretty rope，
Sow it widely，give it scope；
Better hemp than wheaten sheaves；
Thief there's none that ever thieves The pretty rope，the hempen rope.
'Growl，Grève！bark，Grève！
To see the girl of pleasure brave Dangling on the gibbet high，
Every window is an eye.
Growl，Grève！bark，Grève！'
And the young man laughed and fondled the girl all the while.The old woman was La Falourdel，the girl was a courtesan of the town，and the young man was his brother Jehan.
He continued to look on at the scene—as well see this as any other.
He saw Jehan go to a window at the back of the room，open it，glance across at the quay where a thousand lighted windows twinkled，and then heard him say as he closed the window：
'As I live，it is night already！The townsfolk are lighting their candles，and God Almighty his stars.'
Jehan returned to his light o'love，and smashing a bottle that stood on a table，he exclaimed：'Empty，cor- f！—and I've no money！Isabeau，my chuck，I shall never be satisfied with Jupiter till he has turned your two white breasts into two black bottles，that I may suck Beaune wine from them day and night！'
With this delicate pleasantry，which made the courtesan laugh，Jehan left the house.
Dom Claude had barely time to throw himself on the ground to escape meeting his brother face to face and being recognised.Happily the street was dark and the scholar drunk.Nevertheless he did notice the figure lying prone in the mud.
'Oh！oh！'said he，'here's somebody has had a merry time of it to-day！'
He gave Dom Claude a push with his foot，while the older man held his breath with fear.
'Dead drunk！'exclaimed Jehan.'Bravo，he is full.A veritable leech dropped off a wine cask—and bald into the bargain，'he added as he stooped.''Tis an old man！Fortunate senex！'
'For all that，'Dom Claude heard him say as he continued his way，'wisdom is a grand thing，and my brother the Archdeacon is a lucky man to be wise and always have money！'