you know what friendship is?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the gypsy; “it is to be brother and sister; two souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.”
“And love?” pursued Gringoire.
“Oh! love!” said she, and her voice trembled, and her eye beamed. “That is to be two and to be but one.”
Gringoire continued,—
“What must one be then, in order to please you?”
“A man.”
“And I—” said he, “what, then, am I?”
“A man has a helmet on his head, a sword in his hand, and golden spurs on his heels.”
“Good,” said Gringoire, “without a horse, no man. Do you love any one?”
“As a lover?—”
“Yes.”
She remained thoughtful for a moment, then said with a peculiar expression: “That I shall know soon.”
“Why not this evening?” resumed the poet tenderly. “Why not me?”
She cast a grave glance upon him and said,—
“I can never love a man who cannot protect me.”
Gringoire colored, and took the hint. It was evident that the young girl was alluding to the slight assistance which he had rendered her in the critical situation in which she had found herself two hours previously.
“How did you contrive to escape from the claws of Quasimodo?”
This question made the gypsy shudder.
“Oh! the horrible hunchback,” said she, hiding her face in her hands.
“Horrible, in truth,” said Gringoire, who clung to his idea; “but how did you manage to escape him?”
La Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and remained silent.
“Do you know why he followed you?” began Gringoire again.
“I don’t know,” said the young girl, and she added hastily, “but you were following me also, why were you following me?”
“In good faith,” responded Gringoire, “I don’t know either.”
The gypsy began to caress Djali.
“That’s a pretty animal of yours,” said Gringoire.
“She is my sister,” she answered.
“What is the meaning of the words, la Esmeralda?”
“I don’t know,” said she.
“To what language do they belong?”
“They are Egyptian, I think.”
“I suspected as much,” said Gringoire, “you are not a native of France?”
“I don’t know.”
“At what age did you come to France?”
“When I was very young.”
“And when to Paris?”
“Last year.”
She made her customary pretty grimace. “I don’t even know your name.”
“My name? If you want it, here it is,—Pierre Gringoire.”
“I know a prettier one,” said she.
“Naughty girl!” retorted the poet. “Never mind, you shall not provoke me.”
Girl’s eyes were fixed on the ground.
“Phoebus,” she said in a low voice. Then, turning towards the poet, “Phoebus,—what does that mean?”
“It is a Latin word which means sun.”
“Sun!” she repeated.
“It is the name of a handsome archer, who was a god,” added Gringoire.
“A god!” repeated the gypsy, and there was something pensive and passionate in her tone.
At that moment, one of her bracelets became unfastened and fell. Gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up; when he straightened up, the young girl and the goat had disappeared. He heard the sound of a door bolt.
“Has she left me a bed, at least?” said our philosopher.
He made the tour of his cell. There was no piece of furniture adapted to sleeping purposes, except a tolerably long wooden coffer.
Book Third
Chapter I
Good Souls
Sixteen years previous to when this story takes place, one fine morning, on Quasimodo Sunday, a living creature had been deposited, after mass, in the church of Notre-Dame, on the wooden bed securely fixed in the vestibule on the left.
That appeared to excite the curiosity of the numerous group which had congregated about the wooden bed. The group was formed for the most part of women.
In the first row, and among those who were most bent over the bed, four were noticeable, who, from their clothes, were recognizable as attached to some devout sisterhood. They were Agnès la Herme, Jehanne de la Tarme, Henriette la Gaultière, Gauchère la Violette, all four widows, all four dames of the Chapel Étienne Haudry.
“What is this, sister?” said Agnès to Gauchère, gazing at the little creature.
“What is to become of us,” said Jehanne, “if that is the way children are made now?”
“’Tis not a child, Agnès.”
“’Tis an abortion of a monkey,” remarked Gauchère.
“’Tis a miracle,” interposed Henriette la Gaultière.
“He yells loud enough to deafen a chanter,” continued Gauchère.
“I imagine,” said Agnès la Herme, “that it is a beast, an animal,—something not Christian, in short, which ought to be thrown into the fire or into the water.”
It was, in fact, not a new-born child. It was a very angular and very lively little mass. Its head was deformed enough; one beheld only a forest of red hair, one eye, a mouth, and teeth. The eye wept, the mouth cried, and the teeth seemed to ask only to be allowed to bite.
Many people stopped to see the child. Among them was a young priest. He had been listening for everyone who stopped for a while. He had a severe face, with a large brow, and a profound glance. Eventually, he thrust the crowd silently aside, and proclaimed that he would be the one to adopt the child.
