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module:
hugoVersion:
min: "0.84.0"
\ No newline at end of file
title = "Notre-Dame de Paris"
baseURL = "https://gohugo-theme-ananke.pages.dev"
languageCode = "en-us"
theme = ["github.com/theNewDynamic/gohugo-theme-ananke"]
resourceDir = "../resources"
DefaultContentLanguage = "en"
SectionPagesMenu = "main"
Paginate = 3 # this is set low for demonstrating with dummy content. Set to a higher number
googleAnalytics = ""
enableRobotsTXT = true
[languages]
[languages.en]
title = "Ananke"
weight = 1
contentDir = "content/en"
# languageDirection = 'rtl' for Right-To-Left languages
[languages.fr]
title = "Ananke Fr"
weight = 2
contentDir = "content/fr"
[sitemap]
changefreq = "monthly"
priority = 0.5
filename = "sitemap.xml"
[params]
text_color = ""
author = ""
favicon = ""
site_logo = ""
description = "The last theme you'll ever need. Maybe."
# choose a background color from any on this page: https://tachyons.io/docs/themes/skins/ and preface it with "bg-"
background_color_class = "bg-black"
recent_posts_number = 3
[[params.ananke_socials]]
name = "twitter"
url = "https://twitter.com/GoHugoIO"
---
title: "Ananke: a Hugo Theme"
description: "The last theme you'll ever need. Maybe."
# 1. To ensure Netlify triggers a build on our exampleSite instance, we need to change a file in the exampleSite directory.
theme_version: '2.8.2'
cascade:
featured_image: '/images/gohugo-default-sample-hero-image.jpg'
---
Welcome to my blog with some of my work in progress. I've been working on this book idea. You can read some of the chapters below.
---
title: "About"
description: "A few years ago, while visiting or, rather, rummaging about Notre-Dame, the author of this book found, in an obscure nook of one of the towers, the following word, engraved by hand upon the wall: —ANANKE."
featured_image: '/images/Victor_Hugo-Hunchback.jpg'
menu:
main:
weight: 1
---
{{< figure src="/images/Victor_Hugo-Hunchback.jpg" title="Illustration from Victor Hugo et son temps (1881)" >}}
_The Hunchback of Notre-Dame_ (French: _Notre-Dame de Paris_) is a French Romantic/Gothic novel by Victor Hugo, published in 1831. The original French title refers to Notre Dame Cathedral, on which the story is centered. English translator Frederic Shoberl named the novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame in 1833 because at the time, Gothic novels were more popular than Romance novels in England. The story is set in Paris, France in the Late Middle Ages, during the reign of Louis XI.
---
title: Contact
featured_image: ''
omit_header_text: true
description: We'd love to hear from you
type: page
menu: main
---
This is an example of a custom shortcode that you can put right into your content. You will need to add a form action to the shortcode to make it work. Check out [Formspree](https://formspree.io/) for a simple, free form service.
{{< form-contact action="https://example.com" >}}
---
title: "Articles"
date: 2017-03-02T12:00:00-05:00
---
Articles are paginated with only three posts here for example. You can set the number of entries to show on this page with the "pagination" setting in the config file.
---
date: 2017-04-09T10:58:08-04:00
description: "The Grand Hall"
featured_image: "/images/Pope-Edouard-de-Beaumont-1844.jpg"
tags: ["scene"]
title: "Chapter I: The Grand Hall"
---
Three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago
to-day, the Parisians awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple
circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal.
The sixth of January, 1482, is not, however, a day of which history has
preserved the memory. There was nothing notable in the event which thus
set the bells and the bourgeois of Paris in a ferment from early morning.
It was neither an assault by the Picards nor the Burgundians, nor a hunt
led along in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the town of Laas, nor
an entry of “our much dread lord, monsieur the king,” nor even a pretty
hanging of male and female thieves by the courts of Paris. Neither was it
the arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some plumed and
bedizened embassy. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of that
nature, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the
marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its
entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of M. le Cardinal de Bourbon,
who, for the sake of pleasing the king, had been obliged to assume an
amiable mien towards this whole rustic rabble of Flemish burgomasters, and
to regale them at his Hôtel de Bourbon, with a very “pretty morality,
allegorical satire, and farce,” while a driving rain drenched the
magnificent tapestries at his door.
What put the “whole population of Paris in commotion,” as Jehan de Troyes
expresses it, on the sixth of January, was the double solemnity, united
from time immemorial, of the Epiphany and the Feast of Fools.
On that day, there was to be a bonfire on the Place de Grève, a maypole at
the Chapelle de Braque, and a mystery at the Palais de Justice. It had
been cried, to the sound of the trumpet, the preceding evening at all the
cross roads, by the provost’s men, clad in handsome, short, sleeveless
coats of violet camelot, with large white crosses upon their breasts.
So the crowd of citizens, male and female, having closed their houses and
shops, thronged from every direction, at early morn, towards some one of
the three spots designated.
Each had made his choice; one, the bonfire; another, the maypole; another,
the mystery play. It must be stated, in honor of the good sense of the
loungers of Paris, that the greater part of this crowd directed their
steps towards the bonfire, which was quite in season, or towards the
mystery play, which was to be presented in the grand hall of the Palais de
Justice (the courts of law), which was well roofed and walled; and that
the curious left the poor, scantily flowered maypole to shiver all alone
beneath the sky of January, in the cemetery of the Chapel of Braque.
The populace thronged the avenues of the law courts in particular, because
they knew that the Flemish ambassadors, who had arrived two days
previously, intended to be present at the representation of the mystery,
and at the election of the Pope of the Fools, which was also to take place
in the grand hall.
It was no easy matter on that day, to force one’s way into that grand
hall, although it was then reputed to be the largest covered enclosure in
the world (it is true that Sauval had not yet measured the grand hall of
the Château of Montargis). The palace place, encumbered with people,
offered to the curious gazers at the windows the aspect of a sea; into
which five or six streets, like so many mouths of rivers, discharged every
moment fresh floods of heads. The waves of this crowd, augmented
incessantly, dashed against the angles of the houses which projected here
and there, like so many promontories, into the irregular basin of the
place. In the centre of the lofty Gothic* façade of the palace, the grand
staircase, incessantly ascended and descended by a double current, which,
after parting on the intermediate landing-place, flowed in broad waves
along its lateral slopes,—the grand staircase, I say, trickled
incessantly into the place, like a cascade into a lake. The cries, the
laughter, the trampling of those thousands of feet, produced a great noise
and a great clamor. From time to time, this noise and clamor redoubled;
the current which drove the crowd towards the grand staircase flowed
backwards, became troubled, formed whirlpools. This was produced by the
buffet of an archer, or the horse of one of the provost’s sergeants, which
kicked to restore order; an admirable tradition which the provostship has
bequeathed to the constablery, the constablery to the _maréchaussée_,
the _maréchaussée_ to our _gendarmeri_ of Paris.
---
date: 2017-04-10T11:00:59-04:00
description: "Pierre Gringoire"
featured_image: ""
tags: []
title: "Chapter II: Pierre Gringoire"
---
Nevertheless, as be harangued them, the satisfaction and admiration
unanimously excited by his costume were dissipated by his words; and when
he reached that untoward conclusion: “As soon as his illustrious eminence,
the cardinal, arrives, we will begin,” his voice was drowned in a thunder
of hooting.
“Begin instantly! The mystery! the mystery immediately!” shrieked the
people. And above all the voices, that of Johannes de Molendino was
audible, piercing the uproar like the fife’s derisive serenade: “Commence
instantly!” yelped the scholar.
“Down with Jupiter and the Cardinal de Bourbon!” vociferated Robin
Poussepain and the other clerks perched in the window.
“The morality this very instant!” repeated the crowd; “this very instant!
the sack and the rope for the comedians, and the cardinal!”
Poor Jupiter, haggard, frightened, pale beneath his rouge, dropped his
thunderbolt, took his cap in his hand; then he bowed and trembled and
stammered: “His eminence—the ambassadors—Madame Marguerite of
Flanders—.” He did not know what to say. In truth, he was afraid of
being hung.
Hung by the populace for waiting, hung by the cardinal for not having
waited, he saw between the two dilemmas only an abyss; that is to say, a
gallows.
Luckily, some one came to rescue him from his embarrassment, and assume
the responsibility.
An individual who was standing beyond the railing, in the free space
around the marble table, and whom no one had yet caught sight of, since
his long, thin body was completely sheltered from every visual ray by the
diameter of the pillar against which he was leaning; this individual, we
say, tall, gaunt, pallid, blond, still young, although already wrinkled
about the brow and cheeks, with brilliant eyes and a smiling mouth, clad
in garments of black serge, worn and shining with age, approached the
marble table, and made a sign to the poor sufferer. But the other was so
confused that he did not see him. The new comer advanced another step.
“Jupiter,” said he, “my dear Jupiter!”
The other did not hear.
At last, the tall blond, driven out of patience, shrieked almost in his
face,—
“Michel Giborne!”
“Who calls me?” said Jupiter, as though awakened with a start.
“I,” replied the person clad in black.
“Ah!” said Jupiter.
“Begin at once,” went on the other. “Satisfy the populace; I undertake to
appease the bailiff, who will appease monsieur the cardinal.”
Jupiter breathed once more.
“Messeigneurs the bourgeois,” he cried, at the top of his lungs to the
crowd, which continued to hoot him, “we are going to begin at once.”
“_Evoe Jupiter! Plaudite cives_! All hail, Jupiter! Applaud,
citizens!” shouted the scholars.
“Noel! Noel! good, good,” shouted the people.
The hand clapping was deafening, and Jupiter had already withdrawn under
his tapestry, while the hall still trembled with acclamations.
In the meanwhile, the personage who had so magically turned the tempest
into dead calm, as our old and dear Corneille puts it, had modestly
retreated to the half-shadow of his pillar, and would, no doubt, have
remained invisible there, motionless, and mute as before, had he not been
plucked by the sleeve by two young women, who, standing in the front row
of the spectators, had noticed his colloquy with Michel Giborne-Jupiter.
“Master,” said one of them, making him a sign to approach. “Hold your
tongue, my dear Liénarde,” said her neighbor, pretty, fresh, and very
brave, in consequence of being dressed up in her best attire. “He is not a
clerk, he is a layman; you must not say master to him, but messire.”
---
date: 2017-04-12T11:14:48-04:00
description: "Master Jacques Coppenole"
featured_image: ""
tags: ["scene"]
title: "Chapter IV: Master Jacques Coppenole"
---
While the pensioner of Ghent and his eminence were exchanging very low
bows and a few words in voices still lower, a man of lofty stature, with a
large face and broad shoulders, presented himself, in order to enter
abreast with Guillaume Rym; one would have pronounced him a bull-dog by
the side of a fox. His felt doublet and leather jerkin made a spot on the
velvet and silk which surrounded him. Presuming that he was some groom who
had stolen in, the usher stopped him.
“Hold, my friend, you cannot pass!”
The man in the leather jerkin shouldered him aside.
“What does this knave want with me?” said he, in stentorian tones, which
rendered the entire hall attentive to this strange colloquy. “Don’t you
see that I am one of them?”
“Your name?” demanded the usher.
“Jacques Coppenole.”
“Your titles?”
“Hosier at the sign of the ‘Three Little Chains,’ of Ghent.”
The usher recoiled. One might bring one’s self to announce aldermen and
burgomasters, but a hosier was too much. The cardinal was on thorns. All
the people were staring and listening. For two days his eminence had been
exerting his utmost efforts to lick these Flemish bears into shape, and to
render them a little more presentable to the public, and this freak was
startling. But Guillaume Rym, with his polished smile, approached the
usher.
“Announce Master Jacques Coppenole, clerk of the aldermen of the city of
Ghent,” he whispered, very low.
“Usher,” interposed the cardinal, aloud, “announce Master Jacques
Coppenole, clerk of the aldermen of the illustrious city of Ghent.”
This was a mistake. Guillaume Rym alone might have conjured away the
difficulty, but Coppenole had heard the cardinal.
“No, cross of God?” he exclaimed, in his voice of thunder, “Jacques
Coppenole, hosier. Do you hear, usher? Nothing more, nothing less. Cross
of God! hosier; that’s fine enough. Monsieur the Archduke has more than
once sought his _gant_\* in my hose.”
_* Got the first idea of a timing._
Laughter and applause burst forth. A jest is always understood in Paris,
and, consequently, always applauded.
Let us add that Coppenole was of the people, and that the auditors which
surrounded him were also of the people. Thus the communication between him
and them had been prompt, electric, and, so to speak, on a level. The
haughty air of the Flemish hosier, by humiliating the courtiers, had
touched in all these plebeian souls that latent sentiment of dignity still
vague and indistinct in the fifteenth century.
This hosier was an equal, who had just held his own before monsieur the
cardinal. A very sweet reflection to poor fellows habituated to respect
and obedience towards the underlings of the sergeants of the bailiff of
Sainte-Geneviève, the cardinal’s train-bearer.
Coppenole proudly saluted his eminence, who returned the salute of the
all-powerful bourgeois feared by Louis XI. Then, while Guillaume Rym, a
“sage and malicious man,” as Philippe de Comines puts it, watched them
both with a smile of raillery and superiority, each sought his place, the
cardinal quite abashed and troubled, Coppenole tranquil and haughty, and
thinking, no doubt, that his title of hosier was as good as any other,
after all, and that Marie of Burgundy, mother to that Marguerite whom
Coppenole was to-day bestowing in marriage, would have been less afraid of
the cardinal than of the hosier; for it is not a cardinal who would have
stirred up a revolt among the men of Ghent against the favorites of the
daughter of Charles the Bold; it is not a cardinal who could have
fortified the populace with a word against her tears and prayers, when the
Maid of Flanders came to supplicate her people in their behalf, even at
the very foot of the scaffold; while the hosier had only to raise his
leather elbow, in order to cause to fall your two heads, most illustrious
seigneurs, Guy d’Hymbercourt and Chancellor Guillaume Hugonet.
---
title: "Ananke: Un thème pour Hugo"
description: "Le dernier thème dont vous aurez besoin. Peut-être"
cascade:
featured_image: '/images/gohugo-default-sample-hero-image.jpg'
---
Bienvenue sur mon blog à propos de mon travail du moment. Je travaille sur une idée de livre. Vous pouvez lire quelques chapitres plus bas.