make a capitulation. As I am not registering-clerk at the Châtelet, I shall not quibble with you about your thus carrying a dagger in Paris, in the teeth of monsieur the provost's ordinances and prohibitions. You are aware, however, that Noël Lescrivain was condemned, only a week ago, to pay a fine of ten sous parisis for carrying a braquemard.1 But that's no business of mine; and so, to the point. I swear to you, by my chance of salvation, that I will not approach you without your leave and permission. But pray, give me my supper."

The truth is, that Gringoire, like Despréaux, was very little voluptuous." He was not of that cavalier and mousquetaire species who carry girls by assault. In a love affair, as in every other affair, he willingly resigned himself to temporizing and to middle terms; and a good supper, in comfortable tête-à-tête, appeared to him, especially when he was hungry, to be a very good interlude between the opening and the catastrophe of an amatory adventure.

The gypsy gave him no answer. She made her little disdainful mow, drew up her head like a bird, then burst into a laugh; and the little dagger disappeared, as it had come forth, without Gringoire's being able to discover whereabouts the wasp concealed its sting.

In a minute there were upon the table a loaf of rye bread, a slice of bacon, some withered apples, and a jug of beer. Gringoire set to with perfect violence. To hear the furious clatter of his iron fork upon his earthenware plate, it seemed as if all his love had turned to hunger.

The girl, seated before him, witnessed his operations in silence, being evidently preoccupied by some other reflection, at which she smiled from time to time, while her delicate hand caressed the intelligent head of the goat, pressed softly between her knees.

A candle of yellow wax lighted this scene of voracity and of musing.

And now, the first cravings of his stomach being appeased, Gringoire felt a twinge of false shame at seeing that there was only an apple left.

"Mademoiselle Esmeralda," said he, "you don't

eat."

She answered by a negative motion of the head; and then her pensive look seemed to fix itself upon the vault of the chamber.

"What the devil is she attending to?" thought Gringoire: "it can't be that grinning dwarf's face carved upon that keystone, that attracts her so mightily. The devil's in it if I can't bear that comparison, at any rate."

He spoke louder: "Mademoiselle."
She seemed not to hear him.

He repeated, louder still, "Mademoiselle Esmeralda!" It was all in vain. The girl's mind was wandering elsewhere, and Gringoire's voice was unable to bring it back. Luckily, the goat interfered. It began to pull its mistress gently by the sleeve.

"What do you want, Djali?" said the gypsy, sharply, as if starting out of her sleep.

"It's hungry," said Gringoire, delighted at an opportunity of entering into conversation.

La Esmeralda began to crumble some bread, which Djali gracefully ate out of the hollow of her hand. Gringoire, however, allowed her no time to resume her reverie. He ventured upon a delicate question : "You won't have me for your husband, then ? ”

The girl looked steadily at him, and answered, "No."

"For your lover?" proceeded Gringoire.

She thrust out her lip, and again answered, "No." "For your friend?" then demanded the poet. Again she looked at him steadily; and, after a moment's reflection, she said, "Perhaps."

This "perhaps," so dear to philosophers, encouraged Gringoire. "Do you know what friendship is?" he asked.

"Yes," answered the gypsy; "it is to be like brother and sister, - two souls meeting without mingling, two fingers on the same hand."

"And love?" proceeded Gringoire.

"Oh, love!" said she, and her voice trembled and her eye beamed, "that is, to be two and yet but one; a man and a woman mingled into an angel; it is heaven!"

The street dancing-girl, while saying this, had a character of beauty which singularly struck Gringoire, and seemed to him to be in perfect harmony with the almost Oriental exaltation of her words. Her pure and roseate lips were half smiling; her clear, calm forehead was momentarily ruffled by her thoughts, like the mirror dimmed by a passing breath;

VOL. I. -10

and from her long, dark, drooping lashes there emanated a kind of ineffable light, giving her profile that ideal suavity which Raphael afterwards found at the mystic point of intersection of virginity, maternity, and divinity.

Gringoire nevertheless continued, "What must a man be, then, to please you?"

"He must be a man."

"And what am I, then?"

"A man has a helmet on his head, a sword in his hand, and gilt spurs at his heels."

"Good!" said Gringoire; "the horse makes the Do you love anybody?"

man.

"As a lover?"

"Yes; as a lover."

She remained thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, with a peculiar expression, "I shall know that soon."

"Why not to-night?" rejoined the poet, in a tender tone. "Why not me?"

She gave him a grave look, and said, "I can never love a man who cannot protect me."

Gringoire colored, and took the reflection to himself. The girl evidently alluded to the feeble assistance he had lent her in the critical situation in which she had found herself two hours before. This recollection, effaced by his other adventures of the evening, now returned to him. He struck his forehead. "Apropos, mademoiselle," said he, “I ought to have begun with that, - pardon my foolish distractions, - how did you contrive to cscape from the clutches of Quasimodo?"

"Oh! the

At this question the gypsy started. horrid hunchback!" said she, hiding her face with her hands, and shivering violently.

"Horrid indeed!" said Gringoire, still pursuing "But how did you manage to get away

his ideas. from him?”

La Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and was silent.

"Do you know why he had followed you?" asked Gringoire, striving to come round again to the object of his inquiry.

"I don't know," said the girl. Then she added sharply, "But you were following me too. Why did you follow me?"

"To speak honestly," replied Gringoire, "I don't know that either."

There was a pause. Gringoire was marking the table with his knife. The girl smiled, and seemed as if she had been looking at something through the wall. All at once she began to sing, in a voice scarcely audible,

"Quando las pintadas aves
Mudas estan, y la tierra."

She suddenly stopped short, and fell to caressing Djali.

"You've got a pretty animal there," said Gringoire. "It's my sister," answered she.

"Why do they call you La Esmeralda?" asked the

poet.

"I don't know at all."

"But why do they, though?"

She drew from her bosom a sort of small oblong