At another moment he took a diabolical pleasure in torturing himself by bringing before his mind's eye a simultaneous picture of Esmeralda as he had seen her for the first time—filled with life and careless joy，gaily attired，dancing，airy，melodious—and Esmeralda at her last hour，in her shift，a rope about her neck，slowly ascending with her naked feet the painful steps of the gibbet.He brought this double picture so vividly before him that a terrible cry burst from him.
While this hurricane of despair was upheaving，shattering，tearing，bending，uprooting everything within his soul，he gazed absently at the prospect around him.Some fowls were busily pecking and scratching at his feet；bright-coloured beetles ran to and fro in the sunshine；overhead，groups of dappled cloud sailed in a deep-blue sky；on the horizon the spire of the Abbey of Saint-Victor reared its slate obelisk above the rising ground；and the miller of the Butte-Copeaux whistled as he watched the busily turning sails of his mill.All this industrious，orderly，tranquil activity，recurring around him under a thousand different aspects，hurt him.He turned to flee once more.
He wandered thus about the country till the evening.This fleeing from Nature，from life，from himself，from mankind，from God，went on through the whole day.Now he would throw himself face downward on the ground，digging up the young blades of corn with his nails；or he would stand still in the middle of some deserted village street，his thoughts so insupportable that he would seize his head in both hands as if to tear it from his shoulders and dash it on the stones.
Towards the hour of sunset，he took counsel with himself and found that he was well-nigh mad.The storm that had raged in him since the moment that he lost both the hope and the desire to save the gipsy，had left him without one sane idea，one rational thought.His reason lay prostrate on the verge of utter destruction.But two distinct images remained in his mind：Esmeralda and the gibbet.The rest was darkness.These two images in conjunction formed to his mind a ghastly group，and the more strenuously he fixed upon them such power of attention and thought as remained to him，the more he saw them increase according to a fantastic progression—the one in grace，in charm，in beauty，in lustre；the other in horror；till，at last，Esmeralda appeared to him as a star，and the gibbet as a huge fleshless arm.Strange to say，during all this torture he never seriously thought of death.Thus was the wretched man constituted；he clung to life—may-be，indeed，he saw hell in the background.
Meanwhile night was coming on apace.The living creature still existing within him began confusedly to think of return.He imagined himself far from Paris，but on looking about him he discovered that he had but been travelling in a circle round the University.The spire of Saint-Sulpice and the three lofty pinnacles of Saint-Germain-des-Prés broke the sky-line on his right.He bent his steps in that direction.When he heard the'Qui vive？'of the Abbot's guard round the battlemented walls of Saint-Germain，he turned aside，took a path lying before him between the abbey mill and the lazaretto，and found himself in a few minutes on the edge of the Pré-aux-Clercs—the Students'Meadow.This ground was notorious for the brawls and tumults which went on in it day and night；it was a'hydra'to the poor monks of Saint-Germain—Quod monachis Sancti Germani pratensis hydra fuit，clericis nova semper dissidionum capita suscitantibus.1 The Archdeacon feared meeting some one there，he dreaded the sight of a human face；he would not enter the streets till the latest moment possible.He therefore skirted the Préaux-Clercs，took the solitary path that lay between it and the Dieu-Neuf，and at length reached the water-side.There Dom Claude found a boatman，who for a few deniers took him up the river as far as the extreme point of the island of the City，and landed him on that deserted tongue of land on which the reader has already seen Gringoire immersed in reverie，and which extended beyond the royal gardens parallel to the island of the cattle-ferry.
The monotonous rocking of the boat and the ripple of the water in some degree soothed the unhappy man.When the boatman had taken his departure，Claude remained on the bank in a kind of stupor，looking straight before him and seeing the surrounding objects only through a distorting mist which converted the whole scene into a kind of phantasmagoria.
The exhaustion of a violent grief will often produce this effect upon the mind.