It was the goat, just arrived in search of its mistress, and which, in hurrying towards her, had got its horns entangled in the voluminous folds of the noble lady’s gown, which always billowed round her wherever she sat.

This caused a diversion, and the gipsy silently freed the little creature.

“Ah, it is the little goat with the golden hoofs!” cried Berangère, jumping with joy.

The gipsy girl crouched on her knees and pressed her cheek fondly against the goat’s sleek head, as if begging its forgiveness for having left it behind.

At this Diane bent over and whispered in Colombe’s ear: “Ah, how did I not think of it before? This is the gipsy girl with the goat. They say she is a witch, and that her goat performs some truly miraculous tricks.”

“Very well,” said Colombe; “then let the goat amuse us in its turn, and show us a miracle.”

Diane and Colombe accordingly addressed the gipsy eagerly.

“Girl, make thy goat perform a miracle for us.”

“I do not know what you mean,” answered the gipsy.

“A miracle—a conjuring trick—a feat of witchcraft, in fact.”

“I do not understand,” she repeated, and fell to caressing the pretty creature again, murmuring fondly, “Djali! Djali!”

At that moment Fleur-de-Lys remarked a little embroidered leather bag hanging round the goat’s neck. “What is that?” she asked of the gipsy.

The gipsy raised her large eyes to her and answered gravely, “That is my secret.”

Meanwhile the lady of the house had risen. “Come, gipsy girl,” she exclaimed angrily; “if thou and thy goat will not dance for us, what do you here?”

Without a word the gipsy rose and turned towards the door. But the nearer she approached it, the more reluctant became her step. An irresistible magnet seemed to hold her back. Suddenly she turned her brimming eyes on Phœbus, and stood still.

“Vrai Dieu!” cried the captain, “you shall not leave us thus. Come back and dance for us. By-the-bye, sweetheart, how are you called?”

“Esmeralda,” answered the dancing girl, without taking her eyes off him.

At this strange name the girls burst into a chorus of laughter.

“Truly a formidable name for a demoiselle!” sneered Diane.

“You see now,” said Amelotte, “that she is a sorceress.”

“Child,” exclaimed Dame Aloïse solemnly, “your parents never drew that name for you out of the baptismal font!”

For some minutes past Berangère, to whom nobody was paying any attention, had managed to entice the goat into a corner with a piece of marchpane, and immediately they had become the best of friends. The inquisitive child had then detached the little bag from the goat’s neck, opened it, and emptied its