There was another moment when， while laughing diabolically at himself， he represented to himself la Esmeralda as he had seen her on that first day， lively， careless， joyous， gayly attired， dancing， winged， harmonious， and la Esmeralda of the last day， in her scanty shift， with a rope about her neck， mounting slowly with her bare feet， the angular ladder of the gallows； he figured to himself this double picture in such a manner .that he gave vent to a terrible cry.
While this hurricane of despair overturned， broke， tore up， bent， uprooted everything in his soul， he gazed at nature around him. At his feet， some chickens were searching the thickets and pecking， enamelled beetles ran about in the sun；overhead， some groups of dappled gray clouds were floating across the blue sky； on the horizon， the spire of the Abbey Saint-Victor pierced the ridge of the hill with its slate obelisk； and the miller of the Copeaue hillock was whistling as he watched the laborious wings of his mill turning. All this active， organized， tranquil life， recurring around him under a thousand forms， hurt him. He resumed his flight.
He sped thus across the fields until evening. This flight from nature， life， himself， man， God， everything， lasted all day long. Sometimes he flung himself face downward on the， earth， and tore up the young blades of wheat with his nails.
Sometimes he halted in the deserted street of a village， and his thoughts were so intolerable that he grasped his head in both hands and tried to tear it from his shoulders in order to dash it upon the pavement.
Towards the hour of sunset， he examined himself again， and found himself nearly mad. The tempest which had raged within him ever since the instant when he had lost the hope and the will to save the gypsy，--that tempest had not left in his conscience a single healthy idea， a single thought which maintained its upright position. His reason lay there almost entirely destroyed. There remained but two distinct images in his mind， la Esmeralda and the gallows； all the rest was blank. Those two images united， presented to him a frightful group； and the more he concentrated what attention and thought was left to him， the more he beheld them grow， in accordance with a fantastic progression， the one in grace， in charm， in beauty， in light， the other in deformity and horror；so that at last la Esmeralda appeared to him like a star， the gibbet like an enormous， fleshless arm.
One remarkable fact is， that during the whole of this torture， the idea of dying did not seriously occur to him. The wretch was made so. He clung to life. Perhaps he really saw hell beyond it.
Meanwhile， the day continued to decline. The living being which still existed in him reflected vaguely on retracing its steps. He believed himself to be far away from Paris； on taking his bearings， he perceived that he had only circled the enclosure of the University. The spire of Saint-Sulpice， and the three lofty needles of Saint Germain-des-Prés， rose above the horizon on his right. He turned his steps in that direction. When he heard the brisk challenge of the men-at-arms of the abbey， around the crenelated， circumscribing wall of Saint-Germain， he turned aside， took a path which presented itself between the abbey and the lazar-house of the bourg， and at the expiration of a few minutes found himself on the verge of the Pré-aux-Clercs. This meadow was celebrated by reason of the brawls which went on there night and day； it was the hydra of the poor monks of Saint-Germain： ~quod mouachis Sancti-Germaini pratensis hydra fuit， clericis nova semper dissidiorum capita suscitantibus~. The archdeacon was afraid of meeting some one there； he feared every human countenance； he had just avoided the University and the Bourg Saint-Germain； he wished to re-enter the streets as late as possible. He skirted the Pré-aux-Clercs， took the deserted path which separated it from the Dieu-Neuf， and at last reached the water's edge. There Dom Claude found a boatman， who， for a few farthings in Parisian coinage， rowed him up the Seine as far as the point of the city， and landed him on that tongue of abandoned land where the reader has already beheld Gringoire dreaming， and which was prolonged beyond the king's gardens， parallel to the Ile du Passeur-aux-Vaches.
The monotonous rocking of the boat and the ripple of the water had， in some sort， quieted the unhappy Claude. When the boatman had taken his departure， he remained standing stupidly on the strand， staring straight before him and perceiving objects only through magnifying oscillations which rendered everything a sort of phantasmagoria to him. The fatigue of a great grief not infrequently produces this effect on the mind.
The sun had set behind the lofty Tour-de-Nesle. It was the twilight hour. The sky was white， the water of the river was white. Between these two white expanses， the left bank of the Seine， on which his eyes were fixed， projected its gloomy mass and， rendered ever thinner and thinner by perspective， it plunged into the gloom of the horizon like a black spire. It was loaded with houses， of which only the obscure outline could be distinguished， sharply brought out in shadows against the light background of the sky and the water. Here and there windows began to gleam， like the holes in a brazier.