CHORUS OF VAGRANTS.
Long live Clopin! Long live the King of Thune!
Long live the rogues of Paris.
Let us strike our blows at dusk—
The hour when all the cats are drunk.
Let us dance! Defy Pope and bull,
And let us laugh in our skins,
Whether April wets or June burns
The feathers in our caps.
Let us smell from afar
The shot of the avenging archer,
Or the bag of money which passes
On the back of the traveler.
In the light of the moon,
We will go dance with the spirits.
Long live Clopin, King of Thune!
Long live the rogues of Paris!
CLAUDE FROLLO (apart behind a pillar in a corner of the stage. He is covered with a long cloak which hides his priestly garb).
In the midst of this infamous band
What matters the sigh of a soul?
I suffer! Oh, never did fiercer flame
Burn in the bowels of a volcano.
[Esmeralda enters, dancing.
CHORUS.
There she is! There she is! It is she—Esmeralda!
CLAUDE FROLLO (aside).
It is she! oh, yes—'tis she!
Wherefore, relentless fate,
Made you her so beautiful,
Me—so unfortunate?
[She reaches the center of the stage. The Vagrants form an admiring circle around her.