Chapter 1-The Little Shoe
At the moment the truands attacked the Cathedral，Esmeralda was asleep.
But soon the ever-increasing uproar round the church，and the bleating of her goat—awakened before herself—broke these slumbers.She sat up，listened，looked around；then，frightened at the glare and the noise，hurried out of her cell to see what was the matter.The aspect of the Place，the strange visions moving in it，the disorder of this nocturnal assault，the hideous crowd dimly visible through the darkness，hopping about like a cloud of frogs，the hoarse croaking of the multitude，the scattered red torches flitting to and fro in the storm like will-o'-the-wisps flitting over the misty face of a swamp—all seemed to her like some mysterious battle between the phantoms of the witches'Sabbath and the stone monsters of the Cathedral.Imbued from her childhood with the superstitions of the gipsy tribe，her first idea was that she had happened unawares on the Satanic rites of the weird beings proper to the night.Whereupon she hastened back to cower in her cell，asking of her humble couch some less horrible nightmare.
But，by degrees，the first fumes of her terror cleared away from her brain，and by the constantly increasing noise，and other signs of reality，she discovered that she was beset，not by spectres，but by human beings.At this her fear changed；not in degree，but in kind.The thought of the possibility of a popular rising to drag her from her place of refuge flashed into her mind.The prospect of once more losing life，hope，P us，who still was ever-present in her dreams of the future，her utter helplessness，all flight barred，her abandonment，her friendless state—these and a thousand other cruel thoughts overwhelmed her.She fell upon her knees，her head upon her couch，her hands clasped upon her head，overcome by anxiety and terror；and gipsy，idolatress，and pagan as she was，began with sobs and tremblings to ask mercy of the God of the Christians，and pray to Our Lady，her hostess.For，even though one believe in nothing，there come moments in life in which one instinctively turns to the religion of the temple nearest at hand.
She remained thus prostrated for a considerable time，trembling，in truth，more than she prayed，frozen with terror at the breath of that furious multitude coming ever nearer；ignorant of the nature of the storm，of what was in progress，what they were doing，what they wanted；but having the presentiment of some dreadful issue.
In the midst of this agonizing uncertainty，she heard footsteps near her.She raised her head.Two men，one of whom was carrying a lantern，entered her cell.She uttered a feeble cry.
'Fear nothing，'said a voice which sounded familiar to her，'it is I.'
'Who？'she asked.
'Pierre Gringoire.'
The name reassured her.She raised her eyes and saw it was indeed the poet.But at his side stood a dark figure shrouded from head to foot which struck her dumb with fear.
'Ah，'said Gringoire in reproachful tones，'Djali recognised me before you did.'
In truth，the little goat had not waited for Gringoire to name himself.He had scarcely crossed the threshold before she began rubbing herself fondly against his knee，covering the poet with caresses and with white hairs，for she was casting her coat，Gringoire returning her endearments.
'Who is that with you？'asked the Egyptian in a low voice.
'Make yourself easy，'answered Gringoire，'it is a friend of mine.'
Then，setting down his lantern，the philosopher seated himself on the floor，clasping Djali enthusiastically in his arms.'Oh，'tis an engaging beast！More remarkable，no doubt，for its beauty and cleanliness than for its size；but ingenious，subtle，and lettered as a grammarian！Come，my Djali，let us see if thou hast not forgotten any of thy pretty tricks！How does M re Jacques Charmolue when—'
The man in black did not let him finish.He went up to him and pushed him roughly by the shoulder.Gringoire got up again.'You are right，'said he，'I had forgotten that we were in haste.However，that is no reason，master，for hustling people so roughly.My dear pretty one，your life is in danger，and Djali's too.They want to hang you again.We are your friends，and have come to save you.Follow us.'
'Is that true？'she cried.
'Yes，quite true.Come without delay！'
'I will，'she faltered；'but why does not your friend speak？'
'Ah，'said Gringoire，'that is because his father and mother were somewhat fantastical people，and endowed him with a taciturn disposition.'
She had perforce to content herself with this explanation.Gringoire took her by the hand，his companion picked up the lantern and walked ahead of them.The poor girl was bewildered with fear and let herself be led，the goat came skipping after them，so overjoyed at seeing Gringoire once more that she made him stumble at every other step by thrusting her horns between his legs.
'Such is life，'said the philosopher as he just missed falling flat；'it is often our best friends that occasion our fall！'