“Phœbus! a curious name that! There is a Count of Foix called Phœbus. I remember that a girl I once knew never swore by any other name.”

“Come away,”said the priest, “I have something to say to you.”

A certain degree of agitation was perceptible under the Archdeacon’s glacial manner since the passing of the troop of soldiers. He started off walking, Gringoire following, accustomed to obey like all who once came under the influence of that dominating personality. They proceeded in silence till they reached the Rue des Bernardins, which was well–nigh deserted. Here Dom Claude came to a standstill.

“What have you to say to me, master?”asked Gringoire.

“Do you not consider,”answered the Archdeacon with an air of profound reflection, “that the attire of those cavaliers is handsomer than yours or mine?”

Gringoire shook his head. “Faith, I prefer my red and yellow cloak to those iron and steel scales. Where’s the pleasure of making a noise when you walk like the Iron Wharf in an earthquake?”

“Then, Gringoire, you have never envied those fine fellows in their coats of mail?”

“Envied them for what, Monsieur the Archdeacon? Their strength, their arms, their discipline? Nay, give me philosophy and independence in rags. I’d rather be the head of a fly than the tail of a lion.”

“How singular!”mused the priest. “A fine uniform is, nevertheless, a fine thing in its way.”

Gringoire seeing him immersed in thought, strolled away to admire the porch of a neighbouring house. He returned clapping his hands.

“If you were less occupied with the fine habiliments of these warriors, Monsieur the Archdeacon, I would beg you to come and see this door. I have always declared that the house of the Sieur Aubry boasts the most superb entrance in the world!”

“Pierre Gringoire,”said the Archdeacon, “what have you done with the little gipsy dancing girl?”

“Esmeralda, you mean? You have very abrupt changes of conversation.”

“Was she not your wife?”

“Yes, by grace of a broken pitcher. It was a four years’ agreement. By–the–bye,”Gringoire went on in a half bantering tone, “you still think of her, then?”

“And you — you think of her no longer?”

“Not much — I have so many other things. Lord, how pretty the little goat was!”

“Did not that Bohemian girl save your life?”

“Pardieu — that’s true!”

“Well, then, what has become of her? what have you done with her?”

“I cannot tell you. I believe they hanged her.”

“You believe?”

“I am not sure. As soon as I saw there was any question of hanging I kept out of the game.”