extent had two months sufficed to cause the heedless poet to forget the
singular details of the evening on which he had met the gypsy, and
the presence of the archdeacon in it all. Otherwise, the little dancer
feared nothing; she did not tell fortunes, which protected her against
those trials for magic which were so frequently instituted against gypsy
women. And then, Gringoire held the position of her brother, if not of
her husband. After all, the philosopher endured this sort of platonic
marriage very patiently. It meant a shelter and bread at least. Every
morning, he set out from the lair of the thieves, generally with the
gypsy; he helped her make her collections of targes* and little blanks**
in the squares; each evening he returned to the same roof with her,
allowed her to bolt herself into her little chamber, and slept the sleep
of the just. A very sweet existence, taking it all in all, he said,
and well adapted to revery. And then, on his soul and conscience, the
philosopher was not very sure that he was madly in love with the gypsy.
He loved her goat almost as dearly. It was a charming animal, gentle,
intelligent, clever; a learned goat. Nothing was more common in the
Middle Ages than these learned animals, which amazed people greatly, and
often led their instructors to the stake. But the witchcraft of the goat
with the golden hoofs was a very innocent species of magic. Gringoire
explained them to the archdeacon, whom these details seemed to interest
deeply. In the majority of cases, it was sufficient to present the
tambourine to the goat in such or such a manner, in order to obtain from
him the trick desired. He had been trained to this by the gypsy, who
possessed, in these delicate arts, so rare a talent that two months
had sufficed to teach the goat to write, with movable letters, the word
"Phoebus."

* An ancient Burgundian coin.

** An ancient French coin.

"'Phoebus!'" said the priest; "why 'Phoebus'?"

"I know not," replied Gringoire. "Perhaps it is a word which she
believes to be endowed with some magic and secret virtue. She often
repeats it in a low tone when she thinks that she is alone."

"Are you sure," persisted Claude, with his penetrating glance, "that it
is only a word and not a name?"

"The name of whom?" said the poet.

"How should I know?" said the priest.

"This is what I imagine, messire. These Bohemians are something like
Guebrs, and adore the sun. Hence, Phoebus.