geants and hackbuteers,
culverines in hand. Thanks to this thicket of pikes and arquebuses, the
Parvis was empty. Its entrance was guarded by a force of halberdiers
with the armorial bearings of the bishop. The large doors of the church
were closed, and formed a contrast with the innumerable windows on the
Place, which, open to their very gables, allowed a view of thousands of
heads heaped up almost like the piles of bullets in a park of artillery.

The surface of this rabble was dingy, dirty, earthy. The spectacle
which it was expecting was evidently one of the sort which possess the
privilege of bringing out and calling together the vilest among the
populace. Nothing is so hideous as the noise which was made by that
swarm of yellow caps and dirty heads. In that throng there were more
laughs than cries, more women than men.

From time to time, a sharp and vibrating voice pierced the general
clamor.

"Ohe! Mahiet Baliffre! Is she to be hung yonder?"

"Fool! t'is here that she is to make her apology in her shift! the good
God is going to cough Latin in her face! That is always done here, at
midday. If 'tis the gallows that you wish, go to the Greve."

"I will go there, afterwards."

"Tell me, la Boucanbry? Is it true that she has refused a confessor?"

"It appears so, La Bechaigne."

"You see what a pagan she is!"

"'Tis the custom, monsieur. The bailiff of the courts is bound to
deliver the malefactor ready judged for execution if he be a layman, to
the provost of Paris; if a clerk, to the official of the bishopric."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, God!" said Fleur-de-Lys, "the poor creature!"

This thought filled with sadness the glance which she cast upon the
populace. The captain, much more occupied with her than with that pack
of the rabble, was amorously rumpling her girdle behind. She turned
round, entreating and smiling.

"Please let me alone, Phoebus! If my mother were to return, she would
see your hand!"

At that moment, midday rang slowly out from the clock of Notre-Dame. A
murmur of satisfaction broke out in the crowd. The last vibration of the
twelfth stroke had hardly died away when all heads surged like the waves
beneath a squall, and an immense shout went up from the pavement, the
windows, and the roofs,

"There she is!"

Fleur-de-Lys pressed her hands to her eyes, that she might not see.

"Charming girl," said Phoebus, "do you wish to withdraw?"

"No," she replied; and she