It is certainly true that he had often been seen stealing down the Rue des Lombards and slipping furtively into a little house which formed the corner of the Rue des Ecrivains and the Rue Marivault.This was the house which Nicolas Flamel had built，in which he died about 1417，and which，uninhabited ever since，was beginning to fall into decay，so much had the Hermetics and Alchemists from all the ends of the world worn away its walls by merely engraving their names upon them.Some of the neighbours even declared how，through a hole in the wall，they had seen the Archdeacon digging and turning over the earth in those two cellars，of which the door-jambs had been scrawled over with innumerable verses and hieroglyphics by Nicolas Flamel himself.It was supposed that Flamel had buried here the philosopher's stone；and for two centuries the Alchemists，from Magistri to Père Pacifique，never ceased to burrow in that ground，till at last the house，so cruelly ransacked and undermined，crumbled into dust under their feet.
Again，it is true that the Archdeacon was seized with a remarkable passion for the symbolical portal of Notre-Dame，that page of incantation written in stone by Bishop Guillaume of Paris，who is without doubt among the damned for having attached so infernal a frontispiece to the sacred poem eternally chanted by the rest of the edifice.The Archdeacon Claude was also credited with having solved the mystery of the colossal Saint-Christopher，and of that tall，enigmatical statue which stood then at the entrance of the Parvis of the Cathedral，and derisively styled by the people Monsieur le Gris—old curmudgeon.But what nobody could fail to observe，were the interminable hours he would sometimes spend，seated on the parapet of the Parvis，lost in contemplation of the statues；now looking fixedly at the Foolish Virgins with their overturned lamps，now at the Wise Virgins with their lamps upright；at other times calculating the angle of vision of that raven perched on the left side of the central door and peering at a mysterious point inside the church，where most certainly the philosopher's stone is hidden，if it is not in Nicolas Flamel's cellar.
It was a singular destiny，we may remark in passing，for the Cathedral of Notre-Dame to be thus beloved in different degrees and with so much devotion by two creatures so utterly dissimilar as Claude Frollo and Quasimodo；loved by the one—rudimentary，instinctive，savage—for its beauty，its lofty stature，the harmonies that flowed from its magnificent ensemble；loved by the other—a being of cultured and perfervid imagination—for its significance，its mystical meaning，the symbolic language lurking under the sculptures of its f de，like the first manu under the second in a palimpsest—in a word，for the enigma it eternally propounded to the intelligence.
Furthermore，it is certain that in one of the towers which overlooks the Grève，close by the cage of the bells，the Archdeacon had fitted up for himself a little cell of great secrecy，into which no one ever entered—not even the Bishop，without his leave.This cell had been constructed long ago，almost at the summit of the tower among the crows'nests，by Bishop Hugh of Besa n，5 who had played the necromancer there in his time.What this cell contained nobody knew；but on many a night from the shore of the terrain，from which a little round window at the back of the tower was visible，an unaccountable，intermittent red glow might be seen，coming and going at regular intervals，as if in response to the blowing of a pair of bellows，and as if it proceeded rather from a flame than a light.In the darkness，and at that height，the effect was very singular，and the old wives would say，'There's the Archdeacon blowing his bellows again！Hell-fire is blazing up there！'
After all，these were no great proofs of sorcery；but still there was sufficient smoke to warrant the supposition of flame，and the Archdeacon therefore stood in decidedly bad odour.And yet we are bound to say that the occult sciences，that necromancy，magic—even of the whitest and most innocent—had no more virulent foe，no more merciless denouncer before the Holy Office of Notre-Dame than himself.Whether this abhorrence was sincere，or merely the trick of the pickpocket who cries'Stop thief！'it did not prevent the learned heads of the Chapter regarding him as a soul adventuring into the very fore-court of hell，lost among the holes and underground workings of the Cabala，groping in the baleful gloom of occult science.The people，of course，were not to be hood-winked for a moment—any one with a grain of sense could see that Quasimodo was a demon，and Claude Frollo a sorcerer；and it was patent that the bell-ringer was bound to the Archdeacon for a certain time，after which he would carry off his master's soul in guise of payment.Consequently，in spite of the excessive austerity of his life，the Archdeacon was in bad repute with all pious people，and there was no devout nose，however inexperienced，that did not smell out the wizard in him.
