_ Many weeks had elapsed.
The first of March had arrived. The sun, which Dubartas,
that classic ancestor of periphrase, had not yet dubbed
the "Grand-duke of Candles," was none the less radiant and
joyous on that account. It was one of those spring days
which possesses so much sweetness and beauty, that all Paris
turns out into the squares and promenades and celebrates
them as though they were Sundays. In those days of brilliancy,
warmth, and serenity, there is a certain hour above all
others, when the façade of Notre-Dame should be admired.
It is the moment when the sun, already declining towards the
west, looks the cathedral almost full in the face. Its rays,
growing more and more horizontal, withdraw slowly from the
pavement of the square, and mount up the perpendicular
façade, whose thousand bosses in high relief they cause to
start out from the shadows, while the great central rose
window flames like the eye of a cyclops, inflamed with the
reflections of the forge.
This was the hour.
Opposite the lofty cathedral, reddened by the setting sun,
on the stone balcony built above the porch of a rich Gothic
house, which formed the angle of the square and the Rue du
Parvis, several young girls were laughing and chatting with
every sort of grace and mirth. From the length of the veil
which fell from their pointed coif, twined with pearls, to
their heels, from the fineness of the embroidered chemisette
which covered their shoulders and allowed a glimpse, according
to the pleasing custom of the time, of the swell of their fair
virgin bosoms, from the opulence of their under-petticoats
still more precious than their overdress (marvellous
refinement), from the gauze, the silk, the velvet, with which
all this was composed, and, above all, from the whiteness of
their hands, which certified to their leisure and idleness, it
was easy to divine they were noble and wealthy heiresses. They
were, in fact, Damoiselle Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and
her companions, Diane de Christeuil, Amelotte de Montmichel,
Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and the little de Champchevrier
maiden; all damsels of good birth, assembled at that moment
at the house of the dame widow de Gondelaurier, on account
of Monseigneur de Beaujeu and Madame his wife, who were
to come to Paris in the month of April, there to choose maids
of honor for the Dauphiness Marguerite, who was to be
received in Picardy from the hands of the Flemings. Now,
all the squires for twenty leagues around were intriguing for
this favor for their daughters, and a goodly number of the
latter had been already brought or sent to Paris. These four
maidens had been confided to the discreet and venerable
charge of Madame Aloise de Gondelaurier, widow of a former
commander of the king's cross-bowmen, who had retired with
her only daughter to her house in the Place du Parvis, Notre-
Dame, in Paris.
The balcony on which these young girls stood opened from
a chamber richly tapestried in fawn-colored Flanders leather,
stamped with golden foliage. The beams, which cut the ceiling
in parallel lines, diverted the eye with a thousand eccentric
painted and gilded carvings. Splendid enamels gleamed
here and there on carved chests; a boar's head in faience
crowned a magnificent dresser, whose two shelves announced
that the mistress of the house was the wife or widow of a
knight banneret. At the end of the room, by the side of a
lofty chimney blazoned with arms from top to bottom, in
a rich red velvet arm-chair, sat Dame de Gondelaurier, whose
five and fifty years were written upon her garments no less
distinctly than upon her face.
Beside her stood a young man of imposing mien, although
partaking somewhat of vanity and bravado--one of those
handsome fellows whom all women agree to admire, although
grave men learned in physiognomy shrug their shoulders at
them. This young man wore the garb of a captain of the king's
unattached archers, which bears far too much resemblance to
the costume of Jupiter, which the reader has already been
enabled to admire in the first book of this history, for us to
inflict upon him a second description.
The damoiselles were seated, a part in the chamber, a part
in the balcony, some on square cushions of Utrecht velvet
with golden corners, others on stools of oak carved in flowers
and figures. Each of them held on her knee a section of a
great needlework tapestry, on which they were working in
company, while one end of it lay upon the rush mat which
covered the floor.
They were chatting together in that whispering tone and
with the half-stifled laughs peculiar to an assembly of young
girls in whose midst there is a young man. The young man
whose presence served to set in play all these feminine self-
conceits, appeared to pay very little heed to the matter, and,
while these pretty damsels were vying with one another to
attract his attention, he seemed to be chiefly absorbed in
polishing the buckle of his sword belt with his doeskin glove.
From time to time, the old lady addressed him in a very
low tone, and he replied as well as he was able, with a sort of
awkward and constrained politeness.
From the smiles and significant gestures of Dame Aloise,
from the glances which she threw towards her daughter,
Fleur-de-Lys, as she spoke low to the captain, it was easy
to see that there was here a question of some betrothal
concluded, some marriage near at hand no doubt, between the
young man and Fleur-de-Lys. From the embarrassed coldness
of the officer, it was easy to see that on his side, at least,
love had no longer any part in the matter. His whole air was
expressive of constraint and weariness, which our lieutenants
of the garrison would to-day translate admirably as, "What a
beastly bore!"
The poor dame, very much infatuated with her daughter,
like any other silly mother, did not perceive the officer's lack
of enthusiasm, and strove in low tones to call his attention
to the infinite grace with which Fleur-de-Lys used her needle
or wound her skein.
"Come, little cousin," she said to him, plucking him by the
sleeve, in order to speak in his ear, "Look at her, do! see her
stoop."
"Yes, truly," replied the young man, and fell back into his
glacial and absent-minded silence.
A moment later, he was obliged to bend down again, and
Dame Aloise said to him,--
"Have you ever beheld a more gay and charming face than
that of your betrothed? Can one be more white and blonde?
are not her hands perfect? and that neck--does it not
assume all the curves of the swan in ravishing fashion? How
I envy you at times! and how happy you are to be a man,
naughty libertine that you are! Is not my Fleur-de-Lys
adorably beautiful, and are you not desperately in love with
her?"
"Of course," he replied, still thinking of something else.
"But do say something," said Madame Aloise, suddenly
giving his shoulder a push; "you have grown very timid."
We can assure our readers that timidity was neither the
captain's virtue nor his defect. But he made an effort to do
what was demanded of him.
"Fair cousin," he said, approaching Fleur-de-Lys, "what is
the subject of this tapestry work which you are fashioning?'
"Fair cousin," responded Fleur-de-Lys, in an offended tone,
"I have already told you three times. 'Tis the grotto of Neptune."
It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly
than her mother through the captain's cold and absent-minded
manner. He felt the necessity of making some conversation.
"And for whom is this Neptunerie destined?"
"For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine des Champs," answered
Fleur-de-Lys, without raising her eyes.
The captain took up a corner of the tapestry.
"Who, my fair cousin, is this big gendarme, who is puffing
out his cheeks to their full extent and blowing a trumpet?"
"'Tis Triton," she replied.
There was a rather pettish intonation in Fleur-de-Lys's--
laconic words. The young man understood that it was
indispensable that he should whisper something in her ear, a
commonplace, a gallant compliment, no matter what. Accordingly
he bent down, but he could find nothing in his imagination
more tender and personal than this,--
"Why does your mother always wear that surcoat with
armorial designs, like our grandmothers of the time of Charles
VII.? Tell her, fair cousin, that 'tis no longer the fashion,
and that the hinge (gond) and the laurel (laurier) embroidered
on her robe give her the air of a walking mantlepiece.
In truth, people no longer sit thus on their banners, I
assure you."
Fleur-de-Lys raised her beautiful eyes, full of reproach,
"Is that all of which you can assure me?" she said, in a low voice.
In the meantime, Dame Aloise, delighted to see them thus
bending towards each other and whispering, said as she toyed
with the clasps of her prayer-book,--
"Touching picture of love!"
The captain, more and more embarrassed, fell back upon the
subject of the tapestry,--"'Tis, in sooth, a charming work!"
he exclaimed.
Whereupon Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another beautiful
blonde, with a white skin, dressed to the neck in blue damask,
ventured a timid remark which she addressed to Fleur-de-Lys,
in the hope that the handsome captain would reply to it, "My
dear Gondelaurier, have you seen the tapestries of the Hôtel
de la Roche-Guyon?"
"Is not that the hotel in which is enclosed the garden of
the Lingère du Louvre?" asked Diane de Christeuil with a
laugh; for she had handsome teeth, and consequently laughed
on every occasion.
"And where there is that big, old tower of the ancient
wall of Paris," added Amelotte de Montmichel, a pretty fresh
and curly-headed brunette, who had a habit of sighing just as
the other laughed, without knowing why.
"My dear Colombe," interpolated Dame Aloise, "do you
not mean the hotel which belonged to Monsieur de Bacqueville,
in the reign of King Charles VI.? there are indeed
many superb high warp tapestries there."
"Charles VI.! Charles VI.!" muttered the young captain,
twirling his moustache. "Good heavens! what old things
the good dame does remember!"
Madame de Gondelaurier continued, "Fine tapestries, in
truth. A work so esteemed that it passes as unrivalled."
At that moment Bérangère de Champchevrier, a slender
little maid of seven years, who was peering into the square
through the trefoils of the balcony, exclaimed, "Oh! look,
fair Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, at that pretty dancer who is
dancing on the pavement and playing the tambourine in the
midst of the loutish bourgeois!"
The sonorous vibration of a tambourine was, in fact, audible.
"Some gypsy from Bohemia," said Fleur-de-Lys, turning
carelessly toward the square.
"Look! look!" exclaimed her lively companions; and they
all ran to the edge of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys,
rendered thoughtful by the coldness of her betrothed, followed
them slowly, and the latter, relieved by this incident, which
put an end to an embarrassing conversation, retreated to the
farther end of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier
released from duty. Nevertheless, the fair Fleur-de-Lys's was
a charming and noble service, and such it had formerly
appeared to him; but the captain had gradually become
blase'; the prospect of a speedy marriage cooled him more
every day. Moreover, he was of a fickle disposition, and,
must we say it, rather vulgar in taste. Although of very
noble birth, he had contracted in his official harness more
than one habit of the common trooper. The tavern and its
accompaniments pleased him. He was only at his ease amid
gross language, military gallantries, facile beauties, and
successes yet more easy. He had, nevertheless, received from
his family some education and some politeness of manner;
but he had been thrown on the world too young, he had been
in garrison at too early an age, and every day the polish of a
gentleman became more and more effaced by the rough friction
of his gendarme's cross-belt. While still continuing to
visit her from time to time, from a remnant of common
respect, he felt doubly embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; in the
first place, because, in consequence of having scattered his
love in all sorts of places, he had reserved very little for her;
in the next place, because, amid so many stiff, formal, and
decent ladies, he was in constant fear lest his mouth, habituated
to oaths, should suddenly take the bit in its teeth, and
break out into the language of the tavern. The effect can
be imagined!
Moreover, all this was mingled in him, with great pretentions
to elegance, toilet, and a fine appearance. Let the
reader reconcile these things as best he can. I am simply the
historian.
He had remained, therefore, for several minutes, leaning in
silence against the carved jamb of the chimney, and thinking
or not thinking, when Fleur-de-Lys suddenly turned and addressed
him. After all, the poor young girl was pouting
against the dictates of her heart.
"Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian
whom you saved a couple of months ago, while making the
patrol with the watch at night, from the hands of a dozen
robbers?"
"I believe so, fair cousin,." said the captain.
"Well," she resumed, "perchance 'tis that same gypsy girl
who is dancing yonder, on the church square. Come and see
if you recognize her, fair Cousin Phoebus."
A secret desire for reconciliation was apparent in this gentle
invitation which she gave him to approach her, and in the
care which she took to call him by name. Captain Phoebus
de Châteaupers (for it is he whom the reader has had before
his eyes since the beginning of this chapter) slowly approached
the balcony. "Stay," said Fleur-de-Lys, laying her hand tenderly
on Phoebus's arm; "look at that little girl yonder, dancing
in that circle. Is she your Bohemian?"
Phoebus looked, and said,--
"Yes, I recognize her by her goat."
"Oh! in fact, what a pretty little goat!" said Amelotte,
clasping her hands in admiration.
"Are his horns of real gold?" inquired Bérangère.
Without moving from her arm-chair, Dame Aloise interposed,
"Is she not one of those gypsy girls who arrived last
year by the Gibard gate?"
"Madame my mother," said Fleur-de-Lys gently, "that gate
is now called the Porte d'Enfer."
Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier knew how her mother's
antiquated mode of speech shocked the captain. In fact, he
began to sneer, and muttered between his teeth: "Porte
Gibard! Porte Gibard! 'Tis enough to make King Charles VI.
pass by."
"Godmother!" exclaimed Bérangère, whose eyes, incessantly
in motion, had suddenly been raised to the summit of
the towers of Notre-Dame, "who is that black man up
yonder?"
All the young girls raised their eyes. A man was, in truth,
leaning on the balustrade which surmounted the northern
tower, looking on the Grève. He was a priest. His costume
could be plainly discerned, and his face resting on both his
hands. But he stirred no more than if he had been a statue.
His eyes, intently fixed, gazed into the Place.
It was something like the immobility of a bird of prey, who
has just discovered a nest of sparrows, and is gazing at it.
"'Tis monsieur the archdeacon of Josas," said Fleur-de-Lys.
"You have good eyes if you can recognize him from here,"
said the Gaillefontaine.
"How he is staring at the little dancer!" went on Diane
de Christeuil.
"Let the gypsy beware!" said Fleur-de-Lys, "for he loves
not Egypt."
"'Tis a great shame for that man to look upon her thus,"
added Amelotte de Montmichel, "for she dances delightfully."
"Fair cousin Phoebus," said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, "Since
you know this little gypsy, make her a sign to come up here.
It will amuse us."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed all the young girls, clapping their hands.
"Why! 'tis not worth while," replied Phoebus. "She has
forgotten me, no doubt, and I know not so much as her
name. Nevertheless, as you wish it, young ladies, I will
make the trial." And leaning over the balustrade of the
balcony, he began to shout, "Little one!"
The dancer was not beating her tambourine at the moment.
She turned her head towards the point whence this call
proceeded, her brilliant eyes rested on Phoebus, and she
stopped short.
"Little one!" repeated the captain; and he beckoned her
to approach.
The young girl looked at him again, then she blushed as
though a flame had mounted into her cheeks, and, taking her
tambourine under her arm, she made her way through the
astonished spectators towards the door of the house where
Phoebus was calling her, with slow, tottering steps, and with
the troubled look of a bird which is yielding to the
fascination of a serpent.
A moment later, the tapestry portière was raised, and the
gypsy appeared on the threshold of the chamber, blushing,
confused, breathless, her large eyes drooping, and not daring
to advance another step.
Bérangère clapped her hands.
Meanwhile, the dancer remained motionless upon the
threshold. Her appearance had produced a singular effect upon
these young girls. It is certain that a vague and indistinct
desire to please the handsome officer animated them all, that
his splendid uniform was the target of all their coquetries,
and that from the moment he presented himself, there existed
among them a secret, suppressed rivalry, which they hardly
acknowledged even to themselves, but which broke forth,
none the less, every instant, in their gestures and remarks.
Nevertheless, as they were all very nearly equal in beauty,
they contended with equal arms, and each could hope for the
victory.--The arrival of the gypsy suddenly destroyed this
equilibrium. Her beauty was so rare, that, at the moment
when she appeared at the entrance of the apartment, it
seemed as though she diffused a sort of light which was
peculiar to herself. In that narrow chamber, surrounded
by that sombre frame of hangings and woodwork, she was
incomparably more beautiful and more radiant than on the
public square. She was like a torch which has suddenly
been brought from broad daylight into the dark. The noble
damsels were dazzled by her in spite of themselves. Each
one felt herself, in some sort, wounded in her beauty. Hence,
their battle front (may we be allowed the expression,) was
immediately altered, although they exchanged not a single
word. But they understood each other perfectly. Women's
instincts comprehend and respond to each other more quickly
than the intelligences of men. An enemy had just arrived;
all felt it--all rallied together. One drop of wine is
sufficient to tinge a glass of water red; to diffuse a certain
degree of ill temper throughout a whole assembly of pretty women,
the arrival of a prettier woman suffices, especially when there
is but one man present.
Hence the welcome accorded to the gypsy was marvellously
glacial. They surveyed her from head to foot, then
exchanged glances, and all was said; they understood each
other. Meanwhile, the young girl was waiting to be spoken
to, in such emotion that she dared not raise her eyelids.
The captain was the first to break the silence. "Upon my
word," said he, in his tone of intrepid fatuity, "here is a
charming creature! What think you of her, fair cousin?"
This remark, which a more delicate admirer would have
uttered in a lower tone, at least was not of a nature to
dissipate the feminine jealousies which were on the alert
before the gypsy.
Fleur-de-Lys replied to the captain with a bland affectation
of disdain;--"Not bad."
The others whispered.
At length, Madame Aloise, who was not the less jealous
because she was so for her daughter, addressed the
dancer,--"Approach, little one."
"Approach, little one!" repeated, with comical dignity,
little Bérangère, who would have reached about as high as
her hips.
The gypsy advanced towards the noble dame.
"Fair child," said Phoebus, with emphasis, taking several
steps towards her, "I do not know whether I have the
supreme honor of being recognized by you."
She interrupted him, with a smile and a look full of
infinite sweetness,--
"Oh! yes," said she.
"She has a good memory," remarked Fleur-de-Lys.
"Come, now," resumed Phoebus, "you escaped nimbly the
other evening. Did I frighten you!"
"Oh! no," said the gypsy.
There was in the intonation of that "Oh! no," uttered
after that "Oh! yes," an ineffable something which wounded
Fleur-de-Lys.
"You left me in your stead, my beauty," pursued the
captain, whose tongue was unloosed when speaking to a girl
out of the street, "a crabbed knave, one-eyed and hunchbacked,
the bishop's bellringer, I believe. I have been told
that by birth he is the bastard of an archdeacon and a devil.
He has a pleasant name: he is called ~Quatre-Temps~ (Ember
Days), ~Paques-Fleuries~ (Palm Sunday), Mardi-Gras (Shrove
Tuesday), I know not what! The name of some festival when
the bells are pealed! So he took the liberty of carrying you
off, as though you were made for beadles! 'Tis too much.
What the devil did that screech-owl want with you? Hey,
tell me!"
"I do not know," she replied.
"The inconceivable impudence! A bellringer carrying off
a wench, like a vicomte! a lout poaching on the game of
gentlemen! that is a rare piece of assurance. However, he paid
dearly for it. Master Pierrat Torterue is the harshest groom
that ever curried a knave; and I can tell you, if it will be
agreeable to you, that your bellringer's hide got a thorough
dressing at his hands."
"Poor man!" said the gypsy, in whom these words revived the
memory of the pillory.
The captain burst out laughing.
"Corne-de-boeuf! here's pity as well placed as a feather in
a pig's tail! May I have as big a belly as a pope, if--"
He stopped short. "Pardon me, ladies; I believe that I
was on the point of saying something foolish."
"Fie, sir" said la Gaillefontaine.
"He talks to that creature in her own tongue!" added
Fleur-de-Lys, in a low tone, her irritation increasing every
moment. This irritation was not diminished when she beheld
the captain, enchanted with the gypsy, and, most of all, with
himself, execute a pirouette on his heel, repeating with coarse,
naïve, and soldierly gallantry,--
"A handsome wench, upon my soul!"
"Rather savagely dressed," said Diane de Christeuil, laughing
to show her fine teeth.
This remark was a flash of light to the others. Not being
able to impugn her beauty, they attacked her costume.
"That is true," said la Montmichel; "what makes you run
about the streets thus, without guimpe or ruff?"
"That petticoat is so short that it makes one tremble,"
added la Gaillefontaine.
"My dear," continued Fleur-de-Lys, with decided sharpness,
"You will get yourself taken up by the sumptuary police for
your gilded girdle."
"Little one, little one;" resumed la Christeuil, with an
implacable smile, "if you were to put respectable sleeves
upon your arms they would get less sunburned."
It was, in truth, a spectacle worthy of a more intelligent
spectator than Phoebus, to see how these beautiful maidens,
with their envenomed and angry tongues, wound, serpent-like,
and glided and writhed around the street dancer. They were
cruel and graceful; they searched and rummaged maliciously
in her poor and silly toilet of spangles and tinsel. There
was no end to their laughter, irony, and humiliation. Sarcasms
rained down upon the gypsy, and haughty condescension and
malevolent looks. One would have thought they were young
Roman dames thrusting golden pins into the breast of a
beautiful slave. One would have pronounced them elegant
grayhounds, circling, with inflated nostrils, round a poor
woodland fawn, whom the glance of their master forbade them
to devour.
After all, what was a miserable dancer on the public squares
in the presence of these high-born maidens? They seemed
to take no heed of her presence, and talked of her aloud, to
her face, as of something unclean, abject, and yet, at the
same time, passably pretty.
The gypsy was not insensible to these pin-pricks. From
time to time a flush of shame, a flash of anger inflamed her
eyes or her cheeks; with disdain she made that little grimace
with which the reader is already familiar, but she remained
motionless; she fixed on Phoebus a sad, sweet, resigned look.
There was also happiness and tenderness in that gaze. One
would have said that she endured for fear of being expelled.
Phoebus laughed, and took the gypsy's part with a mixture
of impertinence and pity.
"Let them talk, little one!" he repeated, jingling his golden
spurs. "No doubt your toilet is a little extravagant and wild,
but what difference does that make with such a charming
damsel as yourself?"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the blonde Gaillefontaine,
drawing up her swan-like throat, with a bitter smile. "I see
that messieurs the archers of the king's police easily take fire
at the handsome eyes of gypsies!"
"Why not?" said Phoebus.
At this reply uttered carelessly by the captain, like a stray
stone, whose fall one does not even watch, Colombe began to
laugh, as well as Diane, Amelotte, and Fleur-de-Lys, into
whose eyes at the same time a tear started.
The gypsy, who had dropped her eyes on the floor at the
words of Colombe de Gaillefontaine, raised them beaming with
joy and pride and fixed them once more on Phoebus. She was
very beautiful at that moment.
The old dame, who was watching this scene, felt offended,
without understanding why.
"Holy Virgin!" she suddenly exclaimed, "what is it moving
about my legs? Ah! the villanous beast!"
It was the goat, who had just arrived, in search of his
mistress, and who, in dashing towards the latter, had begun
by entangling his horns in the pile of stuffs which the noble
dame's garments heaped up on her feet when she was seated.
This created a diversion. The gypsy disentangled his
horns without uttering a word.
"Oh! here's the little goat with golden hoofs!" exclaimed
Bérangère, dancing with joy.
The gypsy crouched down on her knees and leaned her
cheek against the fondling head of the goat. One would have
said that she was asking pardon for having quitted it thus.
Meanwhile, Diane had bent down to Colombe's ear.
"Ah! good heavens! why did not I think of that sooner?
'Tis the gypsy with the goat. They say she is a sorceress,
and that her goat executes very miraculous tricks."
"Well!" said Colombe, "the goat must now amuse us in
its turn, and perform a miracle for us."
Diane and Colombe eagerly addressed the gypsy.
"Little one, make your goat perform a miracle."
"I do not know what you mean," replied the dancer.
"A miracle, a piece of magic, a bit of sorcery, in short."
"I do not understand." And she fell to caressing the
pretty animal, repeating, "Djali! Djali!"
At that moment Fleur-de-Lys noticed a little bag of
embroidered leather suspended from the neck of the goat,--
"What is that?" she asked of the gypsy.
The gypsy raised her large eyes upon her and replied gravely,--
"That is my secret."
"I should really like to know what your secret is," thought
Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, the good dame had risen angrily,--" Come
now, gypsy, if neither you nor your goat can dance for us,
what are you doing here?"
The gypsy walked slowly towards the door, without making
any reply. But the nearer she approached it, the more
her pace slackened. An irresistible magnet seemed to hold
her. Suddenly she turned her eyes, wet with tears, towards
Phoebus, and halted.
"True God!" exclaimed the captain, "that's not the way
to depart. Come back and dance something for us. By the
way, my sweet love, what is your name?"
"La Esmeralda," said the dancer, never taking her eyes
from him.
At this strange name, a burst of wild laughter broke from
the young girls.
"Here's a terrible name for a young lady," said Diane.
"You see well enough," retorted Amelotte, "that she is
an enchantress."
"My dear," exclaimed Dame Aloise solemnly, "your parents
did not commit the sin of giving you that name at the
baptismal font."
In the meantime, several minutes previously, Bérangère had
coaxed the goat into a corner of the room with a marchpane
cake, without any one having noticed her. In an instant they
had become good friends. The curious child had detached
the bag from the goat's neck, had opened it, and had emptied
out its contents on the rush matting; it was an alphabet, each
letter of which was separately inscribed on a tiny block of
boxwood. Hardly had these playthings been spread out on
the matting, when the child, with surprise, beheld the
goat (one of whose "miracles" this was no doubt), draw out
certain letters with its golden hoof, and arrange them, with
gentle pushes, in a certain order. In a moment they
constituted a word, which the goat seemed to have been trained
to write, so little hesitation did it show in forming it, and
Bérangère suddenly exclaimed, clasping her hands in admiration,--
"Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, see what the goat has just done!"
Fleur-de-Lys ran up and trembled. The letters arranged
upon the floor formed this word,--
PHOEBUS.
"Was it the goat who wrote that?" she inquired in a
changed voice.
"Yes, godmother," replied Bérangêre.
It was impossible to doubt it; the child did not know how
to write.
"This is the secret!" thought Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, at the child's exclamation, all had hastened up,
the mother, the young girls, the gypsy, and the officer.
The gypsy beheld the piece of folly which the goat had
committed. She turned red, then pale, and began to tremble like
a culprit before the captain, who gazed at her with a smile of
satisfaction and amazement.
"Phoebus!" whispered the young girls, stupefied: "'tis
the captain's name!"
"You have a marvellous memory!" said Fleur-de-Lys, to
the petrified gypsy. Then, bursting into sobs: "Oh!" she
stammered mournfully, hiding her face in both her beautiful
hands, "she is a magician!" And she heard another and a
still more bitter voice at the bottom of her heart, saying,--
"She is a rival!"
She fell fainting.
"My daughter! my daughter!" cried the terrified mother.
"Begone, you gypsy of hell!"
In a twinkling, La Esmeralda gathered up the unlucky
letters, made a sign to Djali, and went out through one door,
while Fleur-de-Lys was being carried out through the other.
Captain Phoebus, on being left alone, hesitated for a moment
between the two doors, then he followed the gypsy. _