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 Chateaupers (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 Berangere.

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 Berangere, 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
Greve. 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