Book Seven, Chapter Six, of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Book Seven, Chapter Six. The effect which seven oaths in the open air can produce. To deum laudemus, exclaimed Master Jean, creeping out from his hole, the screech-owls have departed. Och! Och! Hacks! Packs! Max! Fleas! Mad dogs! The devil! I have had enough of their conversation. My head is humming like a bell-tower, and moldy cheese to boot. Come on! Let us descend! Take the big brother's purse and convert all these coins into bottles. He cast a glance of tenderness and admiration into the interior of the precious pouch. Re-adjusted his toilet, rubbed up his boots, dusted his poor half-sleeves, all grey with ashes, whistled in air, indulged in a sportive pirouette, looked about to see whether there were not something more in the cell to take, gathered up here and there on the furnace some amulet in glass which might serve to bestow in the guise of a trinket on Isabel la Thierry, finally pushed open the door which his brother had left unfastened as a last indulgence, and which he, in his turn, left open as a last piece of malice, and descended the circular staircase, skipping like a bird. In the midst of the gloom of the spiral staircase he elbowed something which drew aside with a growl. He took it for granted that it was Quasimodo and it struck him as so droll that he descended the remainder of the staircase holding his sides with laughter. On emerging upon the plus he laughed yet more heartily. He stamped his foot when he found himself on the ground once again. "'Oh!' said he, good and honourable pavement of Paris, cursed staircase, fit to put the angels of Jacob's ladder out of breath. What was I thinking of to thrust myself into that stone gimlet which pierces the sky, all for the sake of eating bearded cheese and looking at the bell-towers of Paris through a hole in the wall?' He advanced a few paces and caught sight of the two screech owls, that is to say, Dom Claude and Master Jacques Charmalieu, absorbed in contemplation before carving on the façade. He approached them on tiptoe and heard the archdeacons say in a low tone to Charmalieu, "'Twas Gaillom de Paris who caused a job to be carved upon this stone of the hue of lapis lazuli, gilded on the edges. Job represents the philosopher's stone, which must also be tried and marterized in order to become perfect, as saith Raymond Loulay, sub conservatione formoe specifico salva anima. "'That makes no difference to me,' said Jean, dis-I, who have the purse.' At that moment he heard a powerful and sonorous voice articulate behind him a formidable series of owls. "'Saint Dieu, vantre Dieu, bed Dieu, cop de Dieu, nom brille de berzeboute, nom d'aum papay, comme y a tonnerre.' "'Upon my soul,' exclaimed Jean, that can only be my friend Captain Phoebus. This name of Phoebus reached the ears of the archdeacon at the moment when he was explaining to the king's procurator the dragon which is hiding its tail in a bath, from which issues smoke and the head of a king. Dom Claude started, interrupted himself, and, to the great amazement of Charmalieu, turned round and beheld his brother Jean accosting a tall officer at the door of the gondolaurier mansion. It was, in fact, Captain Phoebus de Chateau-Pay. He was backed up against a corner of the house of his betrothed and swearing like a heathen. "'By my faith, Captain Phoebus,' said Jean, taking him by the hand, you are cursing with admirable vigor.' "'Horns and thunder,' replied the captain. "'Horns and thunder yourself,' replied the student. "'Come now, fair Captain. Whence comes this overflow of fine words?' "'Pardon me, good Comrade Jean,' exclaimed Phoebus, shaking his hand. "'A horse going at a gallop cannot halt short. Now I was swearing at a hard gallop. I have just been with those prudes, and when I come forth I always find my throat full of curses. I must spit them out or strangle. "'Ventre y'a tonnerre.'" "'Will you come and drink?' asked the scholar. "'This proposition calm the captain. I'm willing, but I have no money. But I have. Bah! Let's see it!' Jean spread out the purse before the captain's eyes with dignity and simplicity. Meanwhile the archdeacon, who had abandoned the dumbfounded Charmeleau where he stood, had approached them and halted a few paces distant, watching them without their noticing him, so deeply where they absorbed in contemplation of the purse. Phoebus exclaimed, "'A purse in your pocket, Jean! Tis the moon in a bucket of water. One sees it there, but tis not there. There's nothing but its shadow. Pardue, let us wager that these are pebbles!' Captain replied coldly, "'Here are the pebbles wherewith I pave my fob!' And without adding another word, he emptied the purse on a neighbouring post with the air of a Roman saving his country. "'True God!' muttered Phoebus. Targes, big blanks, little blanks, maie, every two worth one of our tournée, farthings of Paris, real eagle-yards, tis dazzling!' Jean remained dignified and immovable. Several yards had rolled into the mud. The captain, in his enthusiasm, stooped to pick them up. Jean restrained him. "'Fie, Captain Phoebus de Château-Pay!' Phoebus countered the coins and turned toward Jean with solemnity. "'Do you know, Jean, that there are three and twenty sous-parisies? Whom have you plundered tonight in the street-cote Wazan?' Jean flung back his blonde and curly head and said, half-closing his eyes disdainfully, "'We have a brother who is an archdeacon and a fool!' "'Coin-ne-deux!' exclaimed Phoebus, the worthy man. "'Let us go and drink,' said Jean. "'Where shall we go?' said Phoebus. "'To Eve's apple.' "'No, Captain, to ancient science. An old woman sawing a basket-handle, tis a rebus, and I like that.' "'A plague on rebuses, Jean. The wine is better at Eve's apple, and then, beside the door, there is a vine in the sun which cheers me while I am drinking. "'Well, here goes for Eve and her apple,' said the student, and taking Phoebus' arm. "'By the way, my dear Captain, you just mentioned the Rue Coup-Goulet. That is a very bad form of speech. People are no longer so barbarous. They say Coup-Gorge!' The two friends set out towards Eve's apple. It is unnecessary to mention that they had first gathered up the money, and that the Archdeacon followed them. The Archdeacon followed them, gloomy and haggard. Was this the Phoebus whose accursed name had been mingled with all his thoughts ever since his interview with Gringoire? He did not know it, but it was at least a Phoebus, and that magic name suffice to make the Archdeacon follow the two Hedas comrades with the stealthy tread of a wolf, listening to their words and observing their slightest gestures with anxious attention. Moreover, nothing was easier than to hear everything they said as they talked loudly, not in the least concern that the passers-by were taken into their confidence. They talked of duels, wenches, wine-pots, and folly. At the turning of a street the sound of a tambourine reached them from a neighbouring square. Dom Claude heard the officer say to the scholar, "'Thunder, let us hasten our steps!' "'Why, Phoebus?' "'I'm afraid lest the Bohemian should see me.' "'What Bohemian?' "'The little girl with the goat.' "'Las Moralda?' "'That's it, John. I always forget her devil of a name. Let us make haste. She will recognise me. I don't want to have that girl accost me in the street. Do you know her, Phoebus?' "'Here the Archdeacon saw Phoebus sneer, bent down to Jean's ear, and say a few words to him in a low voice. Then Phoebus burst into a laugh, and shook his head with a triumphant air. "'Truly?' said John. "'Upon my soul!' said Phoebus. "'This evening? This evening. Are you sure that she will come?  Does one doubt such things?' "'Captain Phoebus, you are a happy Jean-Darm!' The Archdeacon heard the whole of this conversation. His teeth chattered. A visible shiver ran through his whole body. He halted for a moment, leaned against a post like a drunken man, then followed the two merry-naves. At the moment when he overtook them once more, they had changed their conversation. He heard them singing at the top of their lungs the ancient refrain. L'enfant de Petit Carreau, c'est font-pandré qu'on m'édevo. The children of the Petit Carreau let themselves be hung like calves. End of Book 7, Chapter 6. The illustrious wine-shop of Yves-Apple was situated in the university, at the corner of the Rue de la Rondelle and the Rue de la Botinnière. It was a very spacious and very low hail on the ground floor, with a vaulted ceiling whose central spring rested upon a huge pillar of wood painted yellow. Tables everywhere, shining pewter jugs hanging on the walls, always a large number of drinkers, a plenty of winches, a window on the street, a vine at the door, and over the door a flaring piece of sheet-iron painted with an apple and a woman, rusted by the rain and turning with the wind on an iron pin. This species of weather-vane which looked upon the pavement was the signboard. Night was falling, the square was dark, the wine-shop full of candles flamed afar like a forge in the gloom, the noise of glasses and feasting of oaths and quarrels which escaped through the broken panes was audible. Through the mist which the warmth of the room spread over the window in front a hundred confused figures could be seen swarming, and from time to time a burst of noisy laughter broke forth from it. The passers-by, who were going about their business, slipped past this tumultuous window without glancing at it. Only at intervals did some little ragged boy raise himself on tiptoe as far as the ledge, and hurl into the drinking-shop that ancient jeering hoot with which drunken men were then pursued. A'ul sa'ul sa'ul sa'ul! Nevertheless one man paced imperturbably back and forth in front of the tavern, gazing at it incessantly and going no further from it than a pikeman from his sentry-box. He was enveloped in a mantle to his very nose. This mantle he had just purchased of the old clothesman in the vicinity of the eaves' apple, no doubt to protect himself from the cold of the March evening, possibly also to conceal his costume. From time to time he paused in front of the dim window with its leaden lattice, listened, looked, and stamped his foot. At length the door of the dram-shop opened. This was what he appeared to be waiting for. Two boon-companions came forth. The ray of light which escaped from the door crimsoned for a moment their jovial faces. The man in the mantle went and stationed himself on the watch under a porch on the other side of the street. "'Come ye, Toner,' said one of the comrades, seven o'clock is on the point of striking, tis the hour of my appointed meeting. "'I tell you,' repeated his companion with a thick tongue, "'that I don't live in the rue de Mavé Parolais, indignus qui intermala verba habitat. I have a lodging in the rue Jean-Pen Molais, in Vico-Johannes-Pen Molais. "'You are more horned than a unicorn if you assert the contrary. One knows that he who once mounts a stride a bear is never after afraid, but you have a nose turned to dainties like Sajac of the hospital. "'Jean, my friend, you are drunk,' said the other. The other replied, staggering. It pleases you to say so, Phoebus, but it hath been proved that Plato had the profile of a hound. The reader has, no doubt, already recognized our two brave friends, the captain and the scholar. It appears that the man who was lying in wait for them had also recognized them, for he slowly followed all the zig-zags that the scholar caused the captain to make, who, being a more hardened drinker, had retained all his self-possession. By listening to them attentively, the man in the mantle could catch in its entirety the following interesting conversation. "'Gorbacque, do try to walk straight, Master Bachelor, you know that I must leave you. Here it is seven o'clock. I have an appointment with a woman. Leave me then. I see stars and lances afire. You are like the chateau d'addeau-martin which is bursting with laughter. By the words of my grandmother Jean, you are raving with too much rabidness. By the way, Jean, have you any money left?' "'Manciur Rector, there is no mistake. The little butcher shop. Parva Buciria.' "'Jean, my friend Jean, you know that I made an appointment with that little girl at the end of Pointe-Saint-Michel, and I can only take her to the Fallot-Deadles, the old crone of the bridge, and that I must pay for a chamber. The old witch with a white mustache would not trust me. Jean, for pity's sake, have we drunk up the whole of the curée's purse? Have you not a single parisie left?' "'The consciousness of having spent the other hour as well is a just and savory condiment for the table. Belly and guts, a truce to your whimsical nonsense. Tell me, Jean of the Devil, have you any money left? Give it to me, bedieu, or I will search you, where you as lepros as Job, and as scabby as Caesar.' "'Manciur, the rue Gallioche is a street which had that one end, the rue de la Vérerie, and at the other, the rue de la Tixaranderie.' "'Well, yes, my good friend Jean, my poor comrade. The rue Gallioche is good, very good, but in the name of heaven collect your wits. I must have a sous-parisie, and the appointment is for seven o'clock.' "'Silence for the rondo, and attention to the refrain.' "'Quoi le rat's mangaron le cas, le voie sera, Seigneur d'Arras, quoi le maire qui est grandeur des céréles sans ganger les envirapères dessous la glace, sortir sa d'Arras de l'our place.' "'Well, scholar of Antichrist, may you be strangled with the entrails of your mother,' exclaimed Phoebus, and he gave the drunken scholar a rough push. The latter slipped against the wall and slid flabbily to the pavement of Philippe Augustus. A remnant of fraternal pity, which never abandons the heart of a drinker, prompted Phoebus to Rojean with his foot upon one of those pillows of the poor, which Providence keeps in readiness at the corner of all the street-posts of Paris, and which the rich blight with the name of a rubbish heap. The captain adjusted Jean's head upon an inclined plain of cabbage-stumps, and on the very instant the scholar fell to snoring in a magnificent base. Meanwhile, all malice was not extinguished in the captain's heart. "'So much the worse if the devil's cart picks you up on its passage,' he said to the poor, sleeping clerk, and he strode off. The man in the mantle, who had not ceased to follow him, halted for a moment before the prostrate scholar, as though agitated by indecision. Then, uttering a profound sigh, he also strode off in pursuit of the captain. "'We, like them, will leave Jean to slumber beneath the open sky, and will follow them also, if it pleases the reader.' On emerging into the rue Saint-André de Arc, Captain Phoebus perceived that someone was following him. On glancing sideways by chance he perceived a sort of shadow crawling after him along the walls. He halted, it halted. He resumed his march. It resumed its march. This disturbed him not over much. "'A-ba!' he said to himself, I have not a sue.' He paused in front of the Collège d'Alton. It was at this college that he had sketched out what he called his studies, and through a scholar's teasing habit which still lingered in him, he never passed the façade without inflicting on the statue of Cardinal Pierre Bertrand, sculptured to the right of the portal, the affront of which Priapus complained so bitterly in the satire of Horus. Olim Trancus, Iram Ficulnus. He had done this with so much unrelenting animosity that the inscription, Aduensis Episcopus, had become almost effaced. Before he halted before the statue according to his want. The street was utterly deserted.  On arriving near him, it halted and remained more motionless than the statue of Cardinal Bertrand. Meanwhile it riveted upon Phoebus two intent eyes, full of that vague light which issues in the night-time from the pupils of a cat. The captain was brave and would have cared very little for a highwayman, with a rapier in his hand. But this walking statue, this petrified man, froze his blood. There were then in circulation strange stories of a surly monk, a nocturnal prowler about the streets of Paris, and they recurred confusedly to his memory. He remained for several minutes in stupefaction, and finally broke the silence with a forced laugh.   Try your hand near by here. In the chapel of this college there is some wood of the true cross set in silver. The hand of the shadow emerged from beneath its mantle and descended upon the arm of Phoebus with the grip of an eagle's talon. At the same time the shadow spoke. Captain Phoebus de Chantopé.  I know not your name alone. Continue the man in the mantle with his sepulchral voice. You have a rendezvous this evening. Yes! replied Phoebus in amazement. At seven o'clock. In a quarter of an hour. At La Folleur d'Elles. Precisely! The lewd hag of the Ponce Saint Michel. You have set Michel the archangel as the pater nostre-saith. Impious wretch, muttered the spectre, with a woman. Confitur, I confess! Who is called? La Smeralda, said Phoebus gaily. All his heedlessness had gradually returned. At this name the shadow's grasp shook the arm of Phoebus in a fury. Phoebus de Chantopé, thou liest! Anyone who could have beheld at that moment the captain's inflamed countenance, his leap backwards so violent that he disengaged himself from the grip which held him, the proud air with which he clapped his hand on his sword-hilt, and in the presence of this wrath the gloomy immobility of the man in the cloak, any one who could have beheld this would have been frightened. There was in it a touch of the combat of Don Juan and the statue. Christ and Satan! exclaimed the captain. That is a word which rarely strikes the ear of a Chantopé. Thou wilt not dare repeat it. Thou liest! said the shadow coldly. The captain gnashed his teeth. Any monk, phantom, superstitions, he had forgotten all at that moment. He no longer beheld anything but a man and an insult. Ah! This is well! He stammered in a voice stifled with rage. He drew his sword, then stammering, for anger as well as fear makes a man tremble. Here! On this spot! Come on! Swords! Swords! Blood on the pavement! But the other never stirred. When he beheld his adversary on guard and ready to parry. Captain Phoebus! He said, and his tone vibrated with bitterness, you forget your appointment! The rages of men like Phoebus are milk soups, whose abolition is calmed by a drop of cold water. This simple remark caused the sword which glittered in the captain's hand to be lowered. Captain, pursued the man, to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, a month hence, ten years hence, you will find me ready to cut your throat. But go first to your rendezvous. In soothe, said Phoebus, as though seeking to capitulate with himself. These are two charming things to be encountered in a rendezvous, a sword and a winch. But I do not see why I should miss the one for the sake of the other, when I can have both. He replaced his sword in its scabbard. Go to your rendezvous, said the man. Montseur, replied Phoebus, with some embarrassment. Many thanks for your courtesy. In fact, there will be ample time to-morrow for us to chop up Father Adam's doublet into slashes and buttonholes. I am obliged to you for allowing me to pass one more agreeable quarter of an hour. I certainly did hope to put you in the gutter, and still arrive in time for the affair one, especially as it has a better appearance to make the women wait a little in such cases. But you strike me as having the air of a gallant man, and it is safe to defer our affair until to-morrow. So I will but take myself to my rendezvous. It is for seven o'clock as you know. Here Phoebus scratched his ear. Ah, comidue! I had forgotten. I haven't a suit to discharge the price of the garret, and the old crone will insist on being paid in advance. She distrusts me. Here is the wherewithal to pay. Phoebus felt the stranger's cold hands slip into his, a large piece of money. He could not refrain from taking the money and pressing the hand. Fredieu! he exclaimed.  One condition, said the man. Prove to me that I have been wrong, and that you were speaking the truth. Hide me in some corner, once I can see whether this woman is really the one whose name you uttered. Oh! replied Phoebus, this all one to me. We will take the satmate chamber. You can look at your ease from the kennel hard by. Come, then, said the shadow. At your service, said the captain. I know not whether you are mis-sirred, diabolous in person, but let us be good friends for this evening. Tomorrow I will repay you all my debts, both of purse and sword. They set out again at a rapid pace. At the expiration of a few minutes the sound of the river announced to them that they were on the Ponce-Saint-Michel, then loaded with houses. I will first show you the way, said Phoebus to his companion. I will then go in search of the fair one who is awaiting me near the pâté-châtelet. His companion made no reply. He had not uttered a word since they had been walking side by side. Phoebus halted before a low door and knocked roughly. A light made its appearance through the cracks of the door. Who is there? cried a toothless voice. Corpè Dieu, dede Dieu, vantre Dieu! replied the captain. The door opened instantly and allowed the newcomers to see an old woman and an old lamp, both of which trembled. The old woman was bent double, clad in tatters, with a shaking head, pierced with two small eyes, and quaffed with a dish-clout. Wrinkled everywhere, on hands and face and neck. Her lips retreated under her gums, and about her mouth she had tufts of white hairs which gave her the whiskered look of a cat. The interior of the den was no less dilapidated than she. There were chalk walls, blackened beams in the ceiling. A dismantled chimney-piece, spiders' webs in all the corners, and in the middle a staggering herd of tables and lame stools, a dirty child among the ashes, and at the back a staircase, or rather a wooden ladder, which ended in a trapped door in the ceiling. On entering this lair, Phoebus' mysterious companion raised his mantle to his very eyes. Meanwhile, the captain, swearing like a Saracen, hastened to, make the sun shine in a crown, as sayeth our admirable Ranier. The Saint-Marthe chamber, said he.  It was the coin which the man in the black mantle had given to Phoebus.  The old crone made a sign to the two gentlemen, as she called them, to follow her, and mounted the ladder in advance of them. On arriving at the upper story she set her lamp on a coffer, and Phoebus, like a frequent visitor of the house, opened a door which opened on a dark hole. Enter here, my dear fellow, he said to his companion. The man in the mantle obeyed without a word in reply, the door closed upon him. He heard Phoebus bolt it, and a moment later descend the stairs again with the aged hag. The light had disappeared. End of Book 7, Chapter 7, Book 7, Chapter 8, of the hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Book 7, Chapter 8, The Utility of Windows Which Open on the River Claude Frollo, for we presume that the reader, more intelligent than Phoebus, as seen in this whole adventure no other surly monk than the arch-deacon, Claude Frollo groped about for several moments in the dark lair into which the captain had bolted him. It was one of those nooks which architects sometimes reserve at the point of junction between the roof and the supporting wall. A vertical section of this kennel, as Phoebus had so justly styled it, would have made a triangle. Moreover, there was neither window nor air-hole, and the slope of the roof prevented one from standing upright. Accordingly, Claude crouched down in the dust and the plaster which creaked beneath him.  What was taking place at that moment in the gloomy soul of the arch-deacon? God and himself could alone know. In what order was he arranging in his mind La Esmeralda, Phoebus, Jacques Charmeleau, his young brother so beloved, yet abandoned by him in the mire, his arch-deacon's cassock, his reputation perhaps dragged to La Falordelles, all these adventures, all these images? I cannot say.  He had been waiting a quarter of an hour. It seemed to him that he had grown a century older. All at once he heard the creaking of the boards of the stairway. Someone was ascending. The trap-door opened once more. A light reappeared. There was a tolerably large crack in the worm-eaten door of his den. He put his face to it. In this manner he could see all that went on in the adjoining room. The cat-faced old crone was the first to emerge from the trap-door, lamp in hand. Then Phoebus twirling his mustache. Then a third person. That beautiful and graceful figure, La Esmeralda. The priest beheld her rise from below like a dazzling apparition. Claude trembled. A cloud spread over his eyes. His pulses beat violently. Everything rustled and whirled around him. He no longer saw nor heard anything. When he recovered himself, Phoebus and Esmeralda were alone seated on the wooden coffer beside the lamp which made these two youthful figures and a miserable pallet at the end of the attic stand out plainly before the arch-deacon's eyes. Inside the pallet was a window whose panes, broken like a spider's web upon which rain has fallen, allowed a view through its rent meshes of a corner of the sky and the moon lying far away on an iderdown bed of soft clouds. The young girl was blushing, confused, palpitating. Her long drooping lashes shaded her crimson cheeks. The officer to whom she dared not lift her eyes was radiant. Suddenly and with a charmingly unconscious gesture she traced with the tip of her finger incoherent lines on the bench and watched her finger. Her foot was not visible. The little goat was nestling upon it. The captain was very gallantly clad. He had tufts of embroidery at his neck and wrists, a great elegance at that day. It was not without difficulty that Dom Claude managed to hear what they were saying, through the humming of the blood which was boiling in his temples. A conversation between lovers is a very commonplace affair. It is a perpetual I love you. A musical phrase which is very insipid and very bald for indifferent listeners, when it is not ornamented with some ferritore. But Claude was not an indifferent listener. Oh! said the young girl, without raising her eyes. Do not despise me, Monsignor Phoebus. I feel that what I am doing is not right. Despise you, my pretty child," replied the officer with an air of superior and distinguished gallantry, despise you, de Dieu and why? For having followed you. On that point, my beauty, we don't agree.  The young girl looked at him in a fright. Hate me! What have I done? For having required so much urging. Alas! said she, just because I am breaking a vow. I shall not find my parents. The amulet will lose its virtue. But what matters it? What need have I, a father or mother now? So saying, she fixed upon the captain her great black eyes, moist with joy and tenderness. Devil, take me if I understand you," exclaimed Phoebus. La Esmeralda remained silent for a moment. Then a tear dropped from her eyes, a sigh from her lips, and she said, Oh Monsignor, I love you! Such a perfume of chastity, such a charm of virtue surrounded the young girl that Phoebus did not feel completely at his ease beside her. But this remark emboldened him. You love me! he said with rapture, and he threw his arm round the gypsy's waist. He had only been waiting for this opportunity. The priest saw it, and tested with the tip of his finger the point of a poignard which he wore concealed in his breast. Phoebus, continued the Bohemian, gently releasing her waist from the captain's tenacious hands.  You saved me, me, who am only a poor child lost in Bohemia.  The officer of my dream had a beautiful uniform like yours, a grand look, a sword. Your name is Phoebus. It is a beautiful name. I love your name. I love your sword. Draw your sword, Phoebus, that I may see it. Child, said the captain, and he unsheathed his sword with a smile. The gypsy looked at the hilt, the blade, examined the cipher on the guard with adorable curiosity, and kissed the sword, saying, you are the sword of a brave man. I love my captain. Phoebus again profited by the opportunity to impress upon her beautiful bent neck a kiss which made the young girl straighten herself up as scarlet as a poppy. The priest gnashed his teeth over it in the dark. Phoebus, resumed the gypsy, let me talk to you. Pray walk a little that I may see you at full height, that I may hear your spurs jingle. How handsome you are! The captain rose to please her, chiding her with a smile of satisfaction.  By the way, my charmer, have you seen me in my archer's ceremonial doublet? Alas! No! She replied. It is very handsome! Phoebus returned and seated himself beside her, but much closer than before. Listen, my dear!  No, no, I will not listen to you. Do you love me? I want you to tell me whether you love me. Do I love thee, angel of my life? exclaimed the captain, half kneeling.  I love thee, and I have never loved any one but thee. The captain had repeated this phrase so many times, in many similar conjectures, that he delivered it all in one breath, without committing a single mistake.  Oh! she murmured, this is the moment when one should die. Phoebus found the moment favourable for robbing her of another kiss, which went to torture the unhappy archdeacon in his nook. Die! exclaimed the amorous captain. What are you saying, my lovely angel? Tis a time for living, or Jupiter is only a scamp. Die at the beginning of so sweet a thing. Cornet de Boeuf, what a jest! It is not that. Listen, my dear similar Esmenarda, pardon, you have so prodigiously Saracen a name that I never can get it straight. Tis a thicket which stops me short. Good heavens! said the poor girl, and I thought my name pretty because of its singularity, but since it displeases you I would that I were called Gotan. Ah! do not weep for such a trifle, my graceful maid. Tis a name to which one must get accustomed, that is all. When I once know it by heart all will go smoothly. Listen then, my dear similar, I adore you passionately. I love you so that Tis simply miraculous. I know a girl who is bursting with rage over it. The jealous girl interrupted him. Who? What matters that to us? said Phoebus. Do you love me? Oh! said she. Well, that is all. You shall see how I love you also. May the great devil Neptunea spear me if I do not make you the happiest woman in the world. We will have a pretty little house somewhere. I will make my archers parade before your windows. They are all mounted and set at defiance those of Captain Mignon. There are Vougiers, Craniquiniers, and Han-Colevenier. I will take you to the great sights of the Parisians at the storehouse of Roulis. Eight thousand armed men, thirty thousand white harnesses, short coats or coats of mail, the sixty-seven banners of the trades, the standards of the parliaments, of the Chamber of Accounts, the Treasury of the Generals, of the AIDS of the Mint. A devilish fine array in short. I will conduct you to see the lions of the Hotel de Wa, which are wild beasts. All women love that. For several moments the young girl, absorbed in her charming thoughts, was dreaming to the sound of his voice, without listening to the sense of his words. Oh, how happy you will be, continued the Captain, and at the same time he gently unbuckled the gypsy's girdle. What are you doing? She said quickly. This act of violence had roused her from her reverie. Nothing, replied Phoebus, I was only saying that you must abandon all this garb of folly and the street corner when you are with me. When I am with you, Phoebus, said the young girl tenderly. She became pensive and silent once more. The Captain, emboldened by her gentleness, clasped her waist without resistance, then began softly to unlace the poor child's corsage, then disarranged her tucker to such an extent that the panting priest beheld the gypsy's beautiful shoulder emerge from the gauze, as round and brown as the moon rising through the mists of the horizon. The young girl allowed Phoebus to have his way. She did not appear to perceive it. The eye of the bold Captain flashed. Suddenly, she turned towards him. Phoebus, she said, with an expression of infinite love, instruct me in thy religion. My religion, exclaimed the Captain, bursting with laughter. I instruct you in my religion? Cornet-a-tornere, what do you want with my religion?" In order that we may be married, she replied. The Captain's face assumed an expression of mingled surprise and disdain of carelessness and libertine passion. Oh, ba! said he. Do people marry?  My beautiful love, resumed Phoebus tenderly. What nonsense is this? A great thing is marriage, truly. One is none the less loving for not having spit Latin into a priest's shop. While speaking thus in his softest voice, he approached extremely near the gypsy. His caressing hands resumed their place round her supple and delicate waist. His eye flashed more and more, and everything announced that Manciar Phoebus was on the verge of one of those moments when Jupiter himself commits so many follies that Homer is obliged to summon a cloud to his rescue. But Dom Claude saw everything. The door was made of thoroughly rotten cast staves, which left large apertures for the passage of his hawk-like gaze. His brown-skinned, broad-shouldered priest, hitherto condemned to the austere virginity of the cloister, was quivering and boiling in the presence of this night scene of love and voluptuousness. This young and beautiful girl given over in disarray to the ardent young man made melted lead flow in his veins. His eyes darted with sensual jealousy beneath all those loosened pins. Anyone who could, at that moment, have seen the face of the unhappy man glued to the worm-eaten bars would have thought that he beheld the face of a tiger glaring from the depths of a cage at some jackal devouring a gazelle. His eyes shone like a candle through the cracks of the door. All at once, Phoebus, with a rapid gesture, removed the gypsy's gorgerette. Poor child, who had remained pale and dreamy, awoke with a start. She recoiled hastily from the enterprising officer, and casting a glance at her bare neck and shoulders, red, confused, mute with shame, she crossed her two beautiful arms on her breast to conceive it. Had it not been for the flame which burned in her cheeks at the side of her so silent and motionless, one would have declared her a statue of modesty. Her eyes were lowered. But the captain's gesture had revealed the mysterious amulet which he wore about her neck. "'What is that?' he said, seizing this pretext to approach once more the beautiful creature whom he had just alarmed. "'Don't touch it,' she replied quickly. "'Tis my guardian. It will make me find my family again, if I remain worthy to do so. "'Oh, leave me, Monsieur la Capitaine. My mother, my poor mother, my mother, where art thou? Come to my rescue. Have pity, Monsieur Phoebus. Give me back my gorgerette.' Phoebus retreated amid, said in a cold tone. "'Oh, mademoiselle, I see plainly that you do not love me.' "'I do not love him,' exclaimed the unhappy child, and at the same time she clung to the captain whom she drew to a seat beside her. "'I do not love thee, my Phoebus. What art thou saying, wicked man, to break my heart? Oh, take me, take all. Do what you will with me. I am thine. What matters to me, the amulet? What matters to me, my mother? "'Tis thou who art my mother, since I love thee? Phoebus, my beloved Phoebus, dost thou see me? Tis I, look at me. Tis the little one whom thou wilt surely not repulse, who comes, who comes herself to seek thee. My soul, my life, my body, my person, all is one thing. Which is thine, my captain? Well, no. We will not marry, since that displeases thee. And then, what am I, a miserable girl of the gutters, whilst thou, my Phoebus, art a gentleman, a fine thing truly? A dancer, wed, an officer? I was mad. No, Phoebus, no. I will be thy mistress, thy amusement, thy pleasure, when thou wilt, a girl who shall belong to thee. I was only made for that, soiled, despised, dishonored. But what matters it, beloved?  Others will embroider scarves for you. Tis I, the servant, who will care for them?  You will have that pity, will you not, Phoebus? Meanwhile, take me. Hear, Phoebus, all this belongs to thee, only love me. We gypsies need only air and love. So saying, she threw her arms round the officer's neck, she looked up at him, supplicatingly, with a beautiful smile and all in tears. Her delicate neck rubbed against the cloth doublet with its rough embroideries. She writhed on her knees, her beautiful body half-naked. The intoxicated captain pressed his ardent lips to those lovely African shoulders. The young girl, her eyes bent on the ceiling as she leaned backwards, quivered, all palpitating beneath this kiss. All at once, above Phoebus' head, she beheld another head, a green, livid, convulsed face with the look of a lost soul. Near this face was a hand grasping a poignard. It was the face and hand of the priest. He had broken the door and he was there. Phoebus could not see him. The young girl remained motionless, frozen with terror, dumb beneath that terrible apparition, like a dove which would raise its head at the moment when the hawk is gazing into her nest with its round eyes. She could not even utter a cry. She saw the poignard descend upon Phoebus and rise again, reeking. "'Maledictions,' said the captain, and fell. She fainted.  When she recovered her senses, she was surrounded by soldiers of the watch. They were carrying away the captain. Baved in his blood, the priest had disappeared. The window at the back of the room which opened on the river was wide open. They picked up a cloak which they supposed to belong to the officer and she heard them saying around her, Disasorcerus, who has stabbed a captain. End of book seven, chapter eight. Book eight, chapter one, of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Book eight, chapter one. The crown changed into a dry leaf. Gringoire and the entire court of miracles were suffering mortal anxiety. For a whole month they had not known what had become of La Esmeralda, which greatly pained the Duke of Egypt and his friends the vagabonds, nor what had become of the goat, which redoubled Gringoire's grief. One evening the gypsy had disappeared and since that time had given no signs of life. All search had proved fruitless. Some tormenting boot-blacks had told Gringoire about meeting her that same evening near the Ponce-Saint-Michel going off with an officer. But this husband, after the fashion of Bohemia, was an incredulous philosopher and besides, he, better than anyone else, knew to what a point his wife was virginal. He had been able to form a judgment as to the unconquerable modesty resulting from the combined virtues of the amulet and the gypsy and he had mathematically calculated the resistance of that chastity to the second power. Accordingly he was at ease on that score. Still he could not understand this disappearance. It was a profound sorrow. He would have grown thin over it had that been possible. He had forgotten everything, even his literary tastes, even his great work, to Figuris Regularibus et Irrégularibus, which it was his intention to have printed with the first money which he should procure, for he had raved over printing ever since he had seen the Didascalon of Eugue de Saint-Victor printed with the celebrated characters of Vandaline Despire. One day, as he was passing sadly before the criminal tournel, he perceived a considerable crowd at one of the gates of the Palais de Justice. "'What is this?' he inquired of a young man who was coming out. "'I know not, sir,' replied the young man. "'Tis said that they are trying a woman who hath assassinated a gendarme. It appears that there is sorcery at the bottom of it. The Archbishop and the official have intervened in the case, and my brother, who is the Archdeacon of José, can think of nothing else. Now I wish to speak with him, but I have not been able to reach him because of the throng which vexes me greatly as I stand in need of money.' "'Alas, sir,' said Gringoire. I would that I would lend you some, but my breaches are worn to holes and tis not crowns which have done it.' He dared not tell the young man that he was acquainted with his brother the Archdeacon, to whom he had not returned after the scene in the church, a negligence which embarrassed him. The scholar went his way and Gringoire set out to follow the crowd which was mounting the staircase of the great chamber.  The populace which he had joined walked an elbowed in silence. After a slow and tiresome march through a long gloomy corridor which wound through the courthouse like the intestinal canal of the ancient edifice, he arrived near a low door, opening upon a hall which his lofty stature permitted him to survey with a glance over the waving heads of the rabble. The hall was vast and gloomy, which latter fact made it appear still more spacious. The day was declining. The long-pointed windows permitted only a pale ray of light to enter, which was extinguished before it reached the vaulted ceiling, like an enormous trellis-work of sculptured beams, whose thousand figures seemed to move confusedly in the shadows. Many candles were already lighted here and there on tables and beaming on the heads of clerks buried in masses of documents. The anterior portion of the hall was occupied by the crowd. On the right and left were magistrates and tables. At the end, upon a platform, a number of judges, whose rear rank sank into the shadows, sinister and motionless faces. The walls were sewn with innumerable fleur-de-lis. A large figure of Christ might be vaguely described above the judges, and everywhere there were pikes and halberds, upon whose points the reflection of the candles placed tips of fire. Monsieur, Gringoire inquired of one of his neighbors, who are all those persons ranged yonder, like prelates in council? Monsieur, replied the neighbor, those on the right are the counselors of the Grand Chamber, those on the left the counselors of the inquiry, the masters in black gowns, the messieurs in red. Who is that big red fellow, yonder above them, who is sweating, pursued Gringoire? It is Monsieur the President. And those sheep behind him, continued Gringoire, who, as we have seen, did not love the magistracy, which arose possibly from the grudge which he cherished against the Palais de Justice since his dramatic misadventure. They are messieurs the masters of requests of the King's household. And that bore in front of him? He is Monsieur the clerk of the Court of Parliament. And that crocodile on the right? Master Philippe Louliet, Advocate Extraordinary of the King. And that big black tomcat on the left? Master Jacques Charmeleau, Procurator of the King in the Ecclesiastical Court, with the Gentleman of the Eficiality. Come now, Monsieur, said Gringoire, pray what are all those fine fellows doing, yonder? They are judging. Judging whom? I do not see the accused. Tis a woman, sir, you cannot see her. She has her back turned to us, and she is hidden from us by the crowd. Stay, yonder she is, where you see a group of partisans. Who is the woman? Asked Gringoire. Do you know her name? No, Monsieur, I have but just arrived. I merely assume that there is some sorcery about it since the official is present at the trial. Come, said our philosopher, we are going to see all these magistrates devour human flesh. Tis as good a spectacle as any other. Monsieur, remarked his neighbour, think you not that Master Jacques Charmeleau has a very sweet air? Hmm! replied Gringoire. I distrust a sweetness which hath pinched nostrils and thin lips. Here the bystanders imposed silence upon the two chatterers. They were listening to an important opposition. M'seigneurs, said an old woman in the middle of the hall, whose form was so concealed beneath their garments that one would have pronounced her a walking heap of rags. M'seigneurs, the thing is as true as that I am la Fallodelle, established these forty years at the Paul Saint Michel, and paying regularly my rents, lords' dues, and quit rents. At the gate opposite, the house of Tassan K. R. the Dyer, which is on the side up the river. A poor old woman now, but a pretty maid in former days, my lords. Someone said to me lately, La Fallodelle, don't use your spinning wheel too much in the evening. The devil is fond of combing the distaffs of old women with his horns. Tis certain that the surly monk who was round about the temple last year now prowls in the city.  One evening I was spinning on my wheel. There comes a knock at my door. I ask, who it is? They swear. I open. Two men enter. A man in black and a handsome officer. Of the black man nothing could be seen but his eyes. Two coals of fire. All the rest was hat and cloak. They say to me, the Saint Marte chamber. Tis my upper chamber, my lords, my cleanest. They give me a crown. I put the crown in my drawer, and I say, this shall go to buy tripe at the slaughter-house of La Gloriette to-morrow. We go upstairs. On arriving at the upper chamber, and while my back is turned, the black man disappears. That dazed me a bit. The officer, who was as handsome as a great lord, goes downstairs again with me. He goes out. In about the time it takes to spin a quarter of a handful of flax, he returns with a beautiful young girl, a doll who would have shown like the sun had she been quaffed.  That set me to thinking. The girl does not concern me, but the goat. I love not those beasts. They have a beard and horns. They are so like a man. And then they smack of the witches, Sabbath. However, I say nothing. I had the crown. That is right. Is it not, Monsieur George? I show the captain and the wench to the upper chamber, and I leave them alone. That is to say, with the goat. I go down and set to spinning again. I must inform you that my house has a ground floor and a story above. I know not why I fell to thinking of the surly monk whom the goat had put into my head again, and then the beautiful girl was rather strangely decked out. All at once I hear a cry upstairs, and something falls on the floor and the window opens. I run to mine, which is beneath it, and I behold a black mass pass before my eyes and fall into the water. It was a phantom clad like a priest. It was a moonlight night. I saw him quite plainly. He was swimming in the direction of the city. Then all of a tremble I call the watch. The gentlemen of the police enter, and not knowing just at the first moment what the matter was, and being merry, they beat me. I explain to them. We go upstairs, and what do we find? My poor chamber all blood. The captain stretched out at full length with a dagger in his neck, the girl pretending to be dead, and the goat all in a fright. Pretty work, I say. I shall have to wash that floor for more than a fortnight. It will have to be scraped. It will be a terrible job. They carried off the officer, poor young man, and the winch with her bosom all bare. But wait! The worst is that on the next day, when I wanted to take the crown to buy tripe, I found a dead leaf in its place. The old woman ceased. A murmur of horror ran through the audience. That phantom, that goat, all smacks of magic, said one of Gringoire's neighbors. And that dry leaf added another. No doubt about it, joined in a third, she is a witch who has dealings with the surly monk for the purpose of plundering officers. Gringoire himself was not disinclined to regard this as altogether alarming and probable. Goodie Fallor Dell, said the President majestically, have you nothing more to communicate to the court? No, Monseigneur, replied the crone, except that the report has described my house as a hovel and stinking, which is an outrageous fashion of speaking. The houses on the bridge are not imposing, because there are such multitudes of people, but nevertheless the butchers continue to dwell there, who are wealthy folk and married to very proper and handsome women. The magistrate, who had reminded Gringoire of a crocodile, rose. Silence, said he. I pray the gentleman not to lose sight of the fact that a dagger was found on the person of the accused. Goodie Fallor Dell, have you brought that leaf into which the crown which the demon gave you was transformed? Yes, Monseigneur, she replied, I found it again, here it is. A bailiff handed the dead leaf to the crocodile, who made a doleful shake of the head, and passed it on to the President, who gave it to the Procurator of the King in the Ecclesiastical Court, and thus it made the circuit of the Hall. It is a birch leaf, said Master Jacques Charmeleau, a fresh proof of magic. A counselor took up the word. Witness, two men went upstairs together in your house, the black man whom you first saw disappear and afterwards swimming in the Sain, with his priestly garments, and the officer. Which of the two handed you the crown? The old woman pondered for a moment, and then said, The officer. A murmur ran through the crowd. Ah! thought Gringoire. This makes some doubt in my mind. But Master Philippe Loulier, Advocate Extraordinary to the King, interposed once more. I will recall to these gentlemen that in the deposition taken at his bedside the assassinated officer, while declaring that he had a vague idea when the black man accosted him that the latter might be the surly monk, added that the phantom had pressed him eagerly to go and make acquaintance with the accused, and upon his, the captain's remarking that he had no money, he had given him the crown which he said the officer paid to La Faleur d'Or, hence that crown is the money of hell. This conclusive observation appeared to dissipate all the doubts of Gringoire and the other skeptics in the audience. You have the documents, gentlemen, added the King's Advocate as he took his seat. You can consult the testimony of Phoebus de Chateau-Pay. At that name the accused sprang up, her head rose above the throng. Gringoire, with horror, recognized La Esmeralda. She was pale, her tresses, formerly so gracefully braided and spangled with sequins, hung in disorder. Her lips were blue, her hollow eyes were terrible. Alas! Phoebus, she said in bewilderment, where is he?  Hold your tongue, woman! replied the President. That is no affair of ours. Oh, for mercy's sake, tell me if he is alive! she repeated, clasping her beautiful, emaciated hands, and the sound of her chains in contact with her dress was heard. Well, said the King's Advocate roughly, he is dying. Are you satisfied? The unhappy girl fell back on her criminal seat, speechless, tearless, white as a wax figure. The President bent down to a man at his feet, who wore a gold cap and a black gown, a chain on his neck and a wand in his hand. Baeliff, bring in the second accused. All eyes turned towards a small door which opened, and to the great agitation of gringoire gave passage to a pretty goat with horns and hoofs of gold. The elegant beast halted for a moment on the threshold, stretching out its neck as though perched on the summit of a rock it had before its eyes an immense horizon. Suddenly, it caught sight of the gypsy girl, and leaping over the table and the head of a clerk, in two bounds it was at her knees. Then it rolled gracefully on its mistress's feet, soliciting a word or a caress. But the accused remained motionless, and poor Jolly himself obtained not a glance. Um, why, tis my villainous beast, said old Falordell. I recognize the two perfectly. Dr. Charmalu interfered. If the gentleman please, we will proceed to the examination of the goat. He was, in fact, the second criminal. Nothing more simple in those days than a suit of sorcery instituted against an animal. We find, among others in the accounts of the Provost's office for 1466, a curious detail concerning the expenses of the trial of Gilles Solaart and his sow, executed for their demerits at Courbet. Everything is there, the cost of the pens in which to place the sow, the five hundred bundles of brushwood purchased at the port of Morsant, the three pints of wine and the bread, the last repast of the victim fraternally shared by the executioner, down to the eleven days of guard and food for the sow, at eight danier's parisie each. Sometimes they went even further than animals. The capitularies of Charlemagne and of Louis la Demonaire imposed severe penalties on fiery phantoms which presumed to appear in the air. Meanwhile, the procurator had exclaimed, if the demon which possesses this goat and which has resisted all exorcisms persists in its deeds of witchcraft, if it alarms the court with them, we warn it that we shall be forced to put in requisition against it the gallows or the stake. Gringoire broke out into a cold perspiration. Charmerleau took from the table the gypsy's tambourine and presenting it to the goat in a certain manner asked the latter, What o'clock is it? The goat looked at it with an intelligent eye, raised its gilded hoof and struck seven blows. It was, in fact, seven o'clock. A movement of terror ran through the crowd. Gringoire could not endure it. He is destroying himself! he cried aloud. You see well that he does not know what he is doing. Silence among the louts at the end of the hall! said the bailiff sharply. Jacques Charmerleau, by the aid of the same manoeuvres of the tambourine, made the goat perform many other tricks connected with the date of the day, the month of the year, etc., which the reader has already witnessed. And by virtue of an optical illusion peculiar to judicial proceedings, the same spectators, who had probably more than once applauded in the public square, Jolly's innocent magic, were terrified by it beneath the roof of the Palais de Justice. The goat was undoubtedly the devil. It was far worse when the procurator of the king, having emptied upon a floor a certain bag filled with movable letters, which Jolly wore round his neck, they beheld the goat extract with his hoof from the scattered alphabet the fatal name of Phoebus. The witchcraft of which the captain had been the victim appeared irresistibly demonstrated, and in the eyes of all the gypsy, that ravishing dancer, who had so often dazzled the passers-by with her grace, was no longer anything but a frightful vampire. However, she betrayed no sign of life. Neither Jolly's graceful evolutions nor the menaces of the court, nor the suppressed implications of the spectators any longer reached her mind. In order to arouse her, a police officer was obliged to shake her unmercifully, and the President had to raise his voice. Girl, you are of the Bohemian race, addicted to deeds of witchcraft. You, in complicity with the bewitched goat implicated in this suit, during the night of the 29th of March last, murdered and stabbed, in concert with the powers of darkness, by the aid of charms and underhand practices, a captain of the king's arches of the watch, Phoebus de Châtoupé. Do you persist in denying it? Horror! exclaimed the young girl, hiding her face in her hands. My Phoebus! Oh, this is hell!  Do I deny it? she said with terrible accents, and she rose with flashing eyes. The President continued squarely. Then how do you explain the facts laid to your charge? She replied in a broken voice. I have already told you. I do not know. It was a priest, a priest whom I do not know, an infernal priest who pursues me. That is it, retorted the judge, the surly monk. Oh, gentlemen, have mercy! I am but a poor girl. Of Egypt, said the judge. Master Jacques Charmelou interposed sweetly. In view of the sad obstinacy of the accused, I demand the application of the torture. Granted, said the President. The unhappy girl quivered in every limb, but she rose at the command of the men with partisans and walked with a tolerably firm step, preceded by Charmelou and the priests of the officiality, between two rows of halberds towards a medium-sized door which suddenly opened and closed again behind her, and which produced upon the grief-stricken gringoire the effect of a horrible mouth which had just devoured her. When she disappeared, they heard a plaintive bleeding. It was the little goat mourning. The sitting of the court was suspended, a counselor having remarked that the gentlemen were fatigued and that it would be a long time to wait until the torture was at an end, the President replied that a magistrate must know how to sacrifice himself to his duty. What an annoying and vexatious hussy! said an aged judge, to get herself put to the question when one has not supped. End of Book 8, Chapter 1. Book 8, Chapter 2 of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Book 8, Chapter 2. Continuation of the crown which was changed into a dry leaf. After ascending and descending several steps in the corridors, which were so dark that they were lighted by lamps at midday, La Esmeralda, still surrounded by her legubrious escort, was thrust by the police into a gloomy chamber. This chamber, circular in form, occupied the ground floor of one of those great towers, which, even in our own century, still pierced through the layer of modern edifices with which modern Paris has covered ancient Paris. There were no windows to this cellar, no other opening than the entrance, which was low, and closed by an enormous iron door. Nevertheless, light was not lacking. A furnace had been constructed in the thickness of the wall. A large fire was lighted there, which filled the vault with its crimson reflections and deprived a miserable candle which stood in one corner of all radiance. The iron grating which served to close the oven, being raised at that moment, allowed only a view at the mouth of the flaming vent hole in the dark wall, the lower extremity of its bars, like a row of black and pointed teeth set flat apart, which made the furnace resemble one of those mouths of dragons which spout forth flames in ancient legends. By the light which escaped from it, the prisoner beheld all about the room frightful instruments whose use she did not understand. In the center lay a leather mattress, placed almost flat upon the ground over which hung a strap provided with a buckle attached to a brass ring in the mouth of a flat-nosed monster carved in the keystone of the vault. Tongs, pincers, large plowshares filled the interior of the furnace and glowed in a confused heap on the coals. The sanguine light of the furnace illuminated in the chamber only a confused mass of horrible things. This Tartarus was called, simply, the question chamber. On the bed, in a negligent attitude, sat Pirat Torteru, the official torturer. His underlings, two gnomes with square faces, leather aprons, and linen breeches, were moving the iron instruments on the coals. In vain did the poor girl summon up her courage, on entering this chamber, she was stricken with horror. The sergeants of the bailiff of the courts drew up in line on one side, the priests of the officiality on the other. A clerk, inkhorn, and a table were in one corner. Master Jacques Charmeleau approached the gypsy with a very sweet smile. My dear child, said he, do you still persist in your denial? Yes, she replied in a dying voice. In that case, replied Charmeleau, it will be very painful for us to have to question you more urgently than we should like. Pray take the trouble to seat yourself on this bed. Master Pirat, make room for Mademoiselle and close the door. Pirat rose with a growl.  Well, my dear fellow, replied Charmeleau, leave it open then. Meanwhile, Laos Moralda had remained standing. That leather bed on which so many unhappy wretches had writhed frightened her. Terror chilled a very marrow of her bones. She stood there bewildered and stupefied. At a sign from Charmeleau the two assistants took her and placed her in a sitting posture on the bed. They did her no harm, but when these men touched her, when that leather touched her, she felt all her blood retreat to her heart. She cast a frightened look around the chamber. It seemed to her, as though she beheld advancing from all quarters towards her, with the intention of crawling up her body and biting and pinching her, all those hideous implements of torture, which, as compared to the instruments of all sorts she had hitherto seen, were like what bats, centipedes, and spiders are among insects and birds. Where is the physician? asked Charmeleau. Here, replied a black gown whom she had not before noticed. She shuddered. Mademoiselle resumed the caressing voice of the Procurator of the Ecclesiastical Court. For the third time, do you persist in denying the deeds of which you are accused? This time she could only make a sign with her head. You persist? said Jacques Charmeleau. Then it grieves me deeply, but I must fulfil my office. Monsieur la Pécurieur d'Evoire, said Pirate abruptly, how shall we begin? Charmeleau hesitated for a moment with the ambiguous grimace of a poet in search of a rhyme. With the boot, he said at last.  The tormentor and the physician approached her simultaneously. At the same time the two assistants began to fumble among their hideous arsenal.  Oh! she murmured, so low that no one heard her. Oh! my Phoebus! Then she fell back once more into her immobility and her marble silence. This spectacle would have rent any other heart than those of her judges.  The miserable body which that frightful swarm of saws, wheels, and racks were about to clasp in their clutches. The being, who was about to be manipulated by the harsh hands of executioners and pincers, was that gentle, white, fragile creature. A poor grain of millet which human justice was handing over to the terrible mills of torture to grind. Meanwhile the callous hands of Periat-Torteru's assistants had bared that charming leg, that tiny foot which had so often amazed the passers-by with their delicacy and beauty in the squares of Paris. Tis a shame, muttered the tormentor, glancing at these graceful and delicate forms. Had the Archdeacon been present, he certainly would have recalled at that moment his symbol of the spider and the fly. Soon the unfortunate girl, through a mist which spread before her eyes, beheld the boot approach. She soon beheld her foot encased between iron plates disappear in the frightful apparatus. Then terror restored her strength. Take that off! she cried angrily, and drawing herself up with her hair all disheveled. Mercy! She darted from the bed to fling herself at the feet of the King's Procurator, but her leg was fast in the heavy block of oak and iron, and she sank down upon the boot, more crushed than a bee with a lump of lead on its wing. At a sign from Charmalieu she was replaced on the bed, and two coarse hands adjusted to her delicate waist the strap which hung from the ceiling. For the last time, do you confess the facts in the case? Demanded Charmalieu with his imperturbable benignity. I am innocent. Then mademoiselle, how do you explain the circumstance laid to your charge? Alas, Monsignor, I do not know. So you deny them? All! Proceed, said Charmalieu to Périt. Périt turned the handle of the screw-jack. The boot was contracted, and the unhappy girl uttered one of those horrible cries which have no orthography in any human language. Stop! said Charmalieu to Périt. Do you confess? he said to the gypsy. All! cried the wretched girl. I confess, I confess, mercy! She had not calculated her strength when she faced the torture. Poor child, whose life up to that time had been so joyous, so pleasant, so sweet, the first pain had conquered her. Humanity forces me to tell you, remarked the king's procurator, that in confessing it is death that you must expect. I certainly hope so, she said, and she fell back upon the leather bed, dying, doubled up, allowing herself to hang suspended from the strap buckled round her waist. Come, fair one, hold up a little, said Master Périt, raising her. You have the air of the lamb of the golden fleece which hangs from Montseur de Bourgogne's neck. Jacques Charmalieu raised his voice. Clerk, right.  Answer! Yes, she said, so low that her words were lost in her breathing. You confess to having seen the ram which Beelzebub causes to appear in the clouds to call together the witches' sabbath and witches beheld by sorcerers alone? Yes. You confess to having adored the heads of Baphomet, those abominable idols of the Templars? Yes. To having had habitual dealings with the devil under the form of a goat familiar joined with you in the suit? Yes. Lastly, you avow and confess to having, with the aid of the demon and of the phantom vulgarly known as the Surly Monk, on the night of the 29th of March last murdered and assassinated a Captain named Phoebus de Chateau-Pay. She raised her large, staring eyes to the magistrate and replied, as though mechanically, without convulsion or agitation, Yes. It was evident that everything within her was broken. Right, clerk, said Charmalieu, and addressing the torturers, release the prisoners and take her back to the court. When the prisoner had been unbooted, the procurator of the ecclesiastical court examined her foot, which was still swollen with pain. Come, he said, there's no great harm done. You shrieked in good season. You could still dance, my beauty. Then he turned to his acolytes of the officiality. Behold, justice enlightened at last! This is a solace, gentlemen. Mademoiselle will bear us witness that we have acted with all possible gentleness. The end of the crown which was turned into a dry leaf. When she re-entered the audience hall, pale and limping, she was received with a general murmur of pleasure. On the part of the audience there was the feeling of impatience gratified which one experiences at the theatre at the end of the last interact of the comedy when the curtain rises and the conclusion is about to begin. On the part of the judges it was the hope of getting their suppers sooner. The little goat also bleated with joy. He tried to run toward his mistress, but they had tied him to the bench. Night was fully set in. The candles, whose number had not been increased, cast so little light that the walls of the hall could not be seen. The shadows there enveloped all objects in a sort of mist. A few apathetic faces of judges alone could be dimly discerned. Opposite them, at the extremity of the long hall, they could see a vaguely white point standing out against the somber background. This was the accused. She had dragged herself to her place. When Charmeleu had installed himself in a magisterial manner in his own, he seated himself, then rose and said, without exhibiting too much self-complacency at his success, the accused has confessed all. Bohemian Girl, the President continued, Have you avowed all your deeds of magic, prostitution, and assassination on Phoebus de Chateau-Pay? Her heart contracted. She was heard to sob amid the darkness.  Monsieur, Procurator of the King in the ecclesiastical courts, said the President, the Chamber is ready to hear you in your charge. Master Charmeleu exhibited an alarming notebook and began to read, with many gestures and the exaggerated accentuation of the pleader, an oration in Latin, wherein all the proofs of the suit were piled up in Ciceronian paraphrases, flanked with quotations from Plautus, his favorite comic author. We regret that we are not able to offer to our readers this remarkable piece. The orator pronounced it with marvellous action.  All at once, in the middle of a fine period, he interrupted himself, and his glance, ordinarily so gentle and even stupid, became menacing. Gentlemen, he exclaimed, this time in French, for it was not in his copy-book. Satan is so mixed up in this affair that here he is present at our debates and making sport of their majesty. Behold! So saying, he pointed to the little goat, who, unseeing Charmeleu gesticulating, had in point of fact, thought it appropriate to do the same, and had seated himself on his haunches, reproducing to the best of his ability, with his fore-pause and his bearded head, the pathetic pantomime of the king's procurator in the ecclesiastical court. This was, if the reader remembers, one of his prettiest accomplishments. This incident, this last proof, produced a great effect. The goat's hoofs were tied, and the king's procurator resumed the thread of his eloquence. It was very long, but the peroration was admirable. Here is the concluding phrase, let the reader add the horse voice and the breathless gestures of Master Charmeleu. In Halahak intermaratha civitis insula, tenore presentium declaremus nos requere. Primo, alequamdom pecuniarium indemnattitum. Secondo, amendationum honorobilum ante portilium maximum nastrodamino. Ecclesiocathedralis. Tertio, sententiani in virtute cugios istas dirga cum sua capella, seo in trivio valgarito dicto, la grav, seo insula exiunto in fluvio secchino. Giusta puintam giordini regalis exacutato sint. He put on his cap again and seated himself. Ehue, sighed the broken-hearted gringoire, Bassa Latinitas, Baster Latin. Another man in a black gown rose near the accused. He was her lawyer. The judges, who were fasting, began to grumble. Advocate, be brief, said the President. Monsieur the President, replied the Advocate. Since the defendant has confessed the crime, I have only one word to say to these gentlemen. Here is a text from the Salic Law. If a witch hath eaten a man, and if she be convicted of it, she shall pay a fine of eight thousand deniers, which amount to two hundred sews of gold. May it please the Chamber to condemn my client to the fine. An abrogated text, said the Advocate extraordinary of the King. Nego, I deny it, replied the Advocate. Pointed to the vote, said one of the Counselors. The crime is manifest, and it is late. They proceeded to take a vote without leaving the room. The judges signified their assent without giving their reasons. They were in a hurry. Their capped heads were seen uncovering one after the other, in the gloom at the lugubrious question addressed to them by the President in a low voice. The poor accused had the appearance of looking at them, but her troubled eye no longer saw. Then the clerk began to write. Then he handed a long parchment to the President. Then the unhappy girl heard the people moving, the pikes clashing, and a freezing voice saying to her, Bohemian wench! On the day when it shall seem good to our Lord the King, at the hour of noon you will be taken in a tumble in your shift with bare feet and a rope about your neck, before the Grand Portal of Notre-Dame, and you will there make an apology with a wax torch of the weight of two pounds in your hand, and thence you will be conducted to the Plastigrav, where you will be hanged and strangled on the town gibbet. And likewise your goat, and you will pay to the official three lions of gold in reparation of the crimes by you committed and by you confessed of sorcery and magic, debauchery and murder upon the person of the Sierphibus de Chateaupé. May God have mercy on your soul. Oh, Tissa dream! she murmured, and she felt rough hands bearing her away.