“And that is all you know about her?”

“Stay; I was told that she had taken refuge in Notre-Dame, and that she was in safety, and I’m sure I’m delighted; but I was not able to discover whether the goat had escaped with her—and that is all I know about it.”

“Then I am going to tell you more,”cried Dom Claude; and his voice, till then low, deliberate, and hollow, rose to thunder. “She did find sanctuary in Notre-Dame, but in three days hence the law will drag her out again, and she will be hanged at the Grève. There is a decree of Parliament.”

“How very disappointing,”said Gringoire. In an instant the priest had resumed his cold, grave demeanour.

“And who the devil,”continued the poet, “has taken the trouble to solicit a decree of reintegration? Why couldn’t they leave the Parliament alone? What harm can it do to any one for a poor girl to take shelter under the buttresses of Notre-Dame among the swallows’ nests?”

“There are Satans in the world,”replied the Archdeacon gloomily.

“Well, ’tis a devilish bad piece of work,”observed Gringoire.

“So she saved your life?”the priest went on after a pause.

“Yes, among my good friends the vagabonds. A touch more, a shade less, and I should have been hanged. They would have been sorry for it now.”

“Will you then do nothing for her?”

“I ask nothing better, Dom Claude; but what if I bring an ugly bit of business about my ears?”

“What does it matter?”

“Matter indeed? You are very good, my dear master! I have two great works just begun.”

The priest smote his forehead. Despite the calm he affected, a violent gesture from time to time betrayed his inward struggles. “How is she to be saved?”

“Master,”said Gringoire, “I can give you an answer; ‘Il padelt,’ which is the Turkish for ‘God is our hope.’ ”

“How is she to be saved?”repeated Dom Claude, deep in thought.

It was Gringoire’s turn to smite his forehead. “Hark you, master, I have imagination. I will find you a choice of expedients. What if we entreated the King’s mercy?”

“Mercy? from Louis XI?”

“Why not?”

“Go ask the tiger for his bone!”

Gringoire racked his brain for fresh solutions.

“Well, then—stay: how would it be to draw up a memorial from the midwives of the city declaring the girl to be pregnant?”

The priest’s sunken eyes glared savagely. “Pregnant? Rascal, knowest thou anything of such a matter?”