hed envy for those handsome fellows
in their military doublets?"

"Envy for what, monsieur the archdeacon? their strength, their armor,
their discipline? Better philosophy and independence in rags. I prefer
to be the head of a fly rather than the tail of a lion."

"That is singular," said the priest dreamily. "Yet a handsome uniform is
a beautiful thing."

Gringoire, perceiving that he was in a pensive mood, quitted him to go
and admire the porch of a neighboring house. He came back clapping his
hands.

"If you were less engrossed with the fine clothes of men of war,
monsieur the archdeacon, I would entreat you to come and see this door.
I have always said that the house of the Sieur Aubry had the most superb
entrance in the world."

"Pierre Gringoire," said the archdeacon, "What have you done with that
little gypsy dancer?"

"La Esmeralda? You change the conversation very abruptly."

"Was she not your wife?"

"Yes, by virtue of a broken crock. We were to have four years of it. By
the way," added Gringoire, looking at the archdeacon in a half bantering
way, "are you still thinking of her?"

"And you think of her no longer?"

"Very little. I have so many things. Good heavens, how pretty that
little goat was!"

"Had she not saved your life?"

"'Tis true, pardieu!"

"Well, what has become of her? What have you done with her?"

"I cannot tell you. I believe that they have hanged her."

"You believe so?"

"I am not sure. When I saw that they wanted to hang people, I retired
from the game."

"That is all you know of it?"

"Wait a bit. I was told that she had taken refuge in Notre-Dame, and
that she was safe there, and I am delighted to hear it, and I have not
been able to discover whether the goat was saved with her, and that is
all I know."

"I will tell you more," cried Dom Claude; and his voice, hitherto low,
slow, and almost indistinct, turned to thunder. "She has in fact, taken
refuge in Notre-Dame. But in three days justice will reclaim her, and
she will be hanged on the Greve. There is a decree of parliament."

"That's annoying," said Gringoire.

The priest, in an instant, became cold and calm again.

"And who the devil," resumed the poet, "has amused himself with
soliciting a decree of reintegration? Why couldn't they leave parliament
in peace? What harm does it do if a poor girl takes shelter under the
flying buttresses of Notre-Dame, beside the swallows' nests?"

"There are satans in