Chapter I: The Danger of Confiding One’s Secret to a Goat

Many weeks had elapsed.

The first of March had arrived. The sun, which Dubartas, that
classic ancestor of periphrase, had not yet dubbed the
“Grand-duke of Candles,” was none the less radiant and joyous on
that account. It was one of those spring days which possesses so
much sweetness and beauty, that all Paris turns out into the
squares and promenades and celebrates them as though they were
Sundays. In those days of brilliancy, warmth, and serenity, there
is a certain hour above all others, when the façade of Notre-Dame
should be admired. It is the moment when the sun, already
declining towards the west, looks the cathedral almost full in
the face. Its rays, growing more and more horizontal, withdraw
slowly from the pavement of the square, and mount up the
perpendicular façade, whose thousand bosses in high relief they
cause to start out from the shadows, while the great central rose
window flames like the eye of a cyclops, inflamed with the
reflections of the forge.

This was the hour.

Opposite the lofty cathedral, reddened by the setting sun, on the
stone balcony built above the porch of a rich Gothic house, which
formed the angle of the square and the Rue du Parvis, several
young girls were laughing and chatting with every sort of grace
and mirth. From the length of the veil which fell from their
pointed coif, twined with pearls, to their heels, from the
fineness of the embroidered chemisette which covered their
shoulders and allowed a glimpse, according to the pleasing custom
of the time, of the swell of their fair virgin bosoms, from the
opulence of their under-petticoats still more precious than their
overdress (marvellous refinement), from the gauze, the silk, the
velvet, with which all this was composed, and, above all, from
the whiteness of their hands, which certified to their leisure
and idleness, it was easy to divine they were noble and wealthy
heiresses. They were, in fact, Damoiselle Fleur-de-Lys de
Gondelaurier and her companions, Diane de Christeuil, Amelotte de
Montmichel, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and the little de
Champchevrier maiden; all damsels of good birth, assembled at
that moment at the house of the dame widow de Gondelaurier, on
account of Monseigneur de Beaujeu and Madame his wife, who were
to come to Paris in the month of April, there to choose maids of
honor for the Dauphiness Marguerite, who was to be received in
Picardy from the hands of the Flemings. Now, all the squires for
twenty leagues around were intriguing for this favor for their
daughters, and a goodly number of the latter had been already
brought or sent to Paris. These four maidens had been confided to
the discreet and venerable charge of Madame Aloïse de
Gondelaurier, widow of a former commander of the king’s
cross-bowmen, who had retired with her only daughter to her house
in the Place du Parvis, Notre-Dame, in Paris.

The balcony on which these young girls stood opened from a
chamber richly tapestried in fawn-colored Flanders leather,
stamped with golden foliage. The beams, which cut the ceiling in
parallel lines, diverted the eye with a thousand eccentric
painted and gilded carvings. Splendid enamels gleamed here and
there on carved chests; a boar’s head in faïence crowned a
magnificent dresser, whose two shelves announced that the
mistress of the house was the wife or widow of a knight banneret.
At the end of the room, by the side of a lofty chimney blazoned
with arms from top to bottom, in a rich red velvet arm-chair, sat
Dame de Gondelaurier, whose five and fifty years were written
upon her garments no less distinctly than upon her face.

Beside her stood a young man of imposing mien, although partaking
somewhat of vanity and bravado—one of those handsome fellows whom
all women agree to admire, although grave men learned in
physiognomy shrug their shoulders at them. This young man wore
the garb of a captain of the king’s unattached archers, which
bears far too much resemblance to the costume of Jupiter, which
the reader has already been enabled to admire in the first book
of this history, for us to inflict upon him a second description.

The damoiselles were seated, a part in the chamber, a part in the
balcony, some on square cushions of Utrecht velvet with golden
corners, others on stools of oak carved in flowers and figures.
Each of them held on her knee a section of a great needlework
tapestry, on which they were working in company, while one end of
it lay upon the rush mat which covered the floor.

They were chatting together in that whispering tone and with the
half-stifled laughs peculiar to an assembly of young girls in
whose midst there is a young man. The young man whose presence
served to set in play all these feminine self-conceits, appeared
to pay very little heed to the matter, and, while these pretty
damsels were vying with one another to attract his attention, he
seemed to be chiefly absorbed in polishing the buckle of his
sword belt with his doeskin glove. From time to time, the old
lady addressed him in a very low tone, and he replied as well as
he was able, with a sort of awkward and constrained politeness.

From the smiles and significant gestures of Dame Aloïse, from the
glances which she threw towards her daughter, Fleur-de-Lys, as
she spoke low to the captain, it was easy to see that there was
here a question of some betrothal concluded, some marriage near
at hand no doubt, between the young man and Fleur-de-Lys. From
the embarrassed coldness of the officer, it was easy to see that
on his side, at least, love had no longer any part in the matter.
His whole air was expressive of constraint and weariness, which
our lieutenants of the garrison would to-day translate admirably
as, “What a beastly bore!”

The poor dame, very much infatuated with her daughter, like any
other silly mother, did not perceive the officer’s lack of
enthusiasm, and strove in low tones to call his attention to the
infinite grace with which Fleur-de-Lys used her needle or wound
her skein.

“Come, little cousin,” she said to him, plucking him by the
sleeve, in order to speak in his ear, “Look at her, do! see her
stoop.”

“Yes, truly,” replied the young man, and fell back into his
glacial and absent-minded silence.

A moment later, he was obliged to bend down again, and Dame
Aloïse said to him,—

“Have you ever beheld a more gay and charming face than that of
your betrothed? Can one be more white and blonde? are not her
hands perfect? and that neck—does it not assume all the curves of
the swan in ravishing fashion? How I envy you at times! and how
happy you are to be a man, naughty libertine that you are! Is not
my Fleur-de-Lys adorably beautiful, and are you not desperately
in love with her?”

“Of course,” he replied, still thinking of something else.

“But do say something,” said Madame Aloïse, suddenly giving his
shoulder a push; “you have grown very timid.”

We can assure our readers that timidity was neither the captain’s
virtue nor his defect. But he made an effort to do what was
demanded of him.

“Fair cousin,” he said, approaching Fleur-de-Lys, “what is the
subject of this tapestry work which you are fashioning?”

“Fair cousin,” responded Fleur-de-Lys, in an offended tone, “I
have already told you three times. ’Tis the grotto of Neptune.”

It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly than her
mother through the captain’s cold and absent-minded manner. He
felt the necessity of making some conversation.

“And for whom is this Neptunerie destined?”

“For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine des Champs,” answered
Fleur-de-Lys, without raising her eyes.

The captain took up a corner of the tapestry.

“Who, my fair cousin, is this big gendarme, who is puffing out
his cheeks to their full extent and blowing a trumpet?”

“’Tis Triton,” she replied.

There was a rather pettish intonation in Fleur-de-Lys’s laconic
words. The young man understood that it was indispensable that he
should whisper something in her ear, a commonplace, a gallant
compliment, no matter what. Accordingly he bent down, but he
could find nothing in his imagination more tender and personal
than this,—

“Why does your mother always wear that surcoat with armorial
designs, like our grandmothers of the time of Charles VII.? Tell
her, fair cousin, that ’tis no longer the fashion, and that the
hinge (_gond_) and the laurel (_laurier_) embroidered on her robe
give her the air of a walking mantlepiece. In truth, people no
longer sit thus on their banners, I assure you.”

Fleur-de-Lys raised her beautiful eyes, full of reproach, “Is
that all of which you can assure me?” she said, in a low voice.

In the meantime, Dame Aloïse, delighted to see them thus bending
towards each other and whispering, said as she toyed with the
clasps of her prayer-book,—

“Touching picture of love!”

The captain, more and more embarrassed, fell back upon the
subject of the tapestry,—“’Tis, in sooth, a charming work!” he
exclaimed.

Whereupon Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another beautiful blonde,
with a white skin, dressed to the neck in blue damask, ventured a
timid remark which she addressed to Fleur-de-Lys, in the hope
that the handsome captain would reply to it, “My dear
Gondelaurier, have you seen the tapestries of the Hôtel de la
Roche-Guyon?”

“Is not that the hôtel in which is enclosed the garden of the
Lingère du Louvre?” asked Diane de Christeuil with a laugh; for
she had handsome teeth, and consequently laughed on every
occasion.

“And where there is that big, old tower of the ancient wall of
Paris,” added Amelotte de Montmichel, a pretty fresh and
curly-headed brunette, who had a habit of sighing just as the
other laughed, without knowing why.

“My dear Colombe,” interpolated Dame Aloïse, “do you not mean the
hôtel which belonged to Monsieur de Bacqueville, in the reign of
King Charles VI.? there are indeed many superb high warp
tapestries there.”

“Charles VI.! Charles VI.!” muttered the young captain, twirling
his moustache. “Good heavens! what old things the good dame does
remember!”

Madame de Gondelaurier continued, “Fine tapestries, in truth. A
work so esteemed that it passes as unrivalled.”

At that moment Bérangère de Champchevrier, a slender little maid
of seven years, who was peering into the square through the
trefoils of the balcony, exclaimed, “Oh! look, fair Godmother
Fleur-de-Lys, at that pretty dancer who is dancing on the
pavement and playing the tambourine in the midst of the loutish
_bourgeois!_”

The sonorous vibration of a tambourine was, in fact, audible.
“Some gypsy from Bohemia,” said Fleur-de-Lys, turning carelessly
toward the square.

“Look! look!” exclaimed her lively companions; and they all ran
to the edge of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, rendered
thoughtful by the coldness of her betrothed, followed them
slowly, and the latter, relieved by this incident, which put an
end to an embarrassing conversation, retreated to the farther end
of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier released from
duty. Nevertheless, the fair Fleur-de-Lys’s was a charming and
noble service, and such it had formerly appeared to him; but the
captain had gradually become _blasé;_ the prospect of a speedy
marriage cooled him more every day. Moreover, he was of a fickle
disposition, and, must we say it, rather vulgar in taste.
Although of very noble birth, he had contracted in his official
harness more than one habit of the common trooper. The tavern and
its accompaniments pleased him. He was only at his ease amid
gross language, military gallantries, facile beauties, and
successes yet more easy. He had, nevertheless, received from his
family some education and some politeness of manner; but he had
been thrown on the world too young, he had been in garrison at
too early an age, and every day the polish of a gentleman became
more and more effaced by the rough friction of his gendarme’s
cross-belt. While still continuing to visit her from time to
time, from a remnant of common respect, he felt doubly
embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; in the first place, because, in
consequence of having scattered his love in all sorts of places,
he had reserved very little for her; in the next place, because,
amid so many stiff, formal, and decent ladies, he was in constant
fear lest his mouth, habituated to oaths, should suddenly take
the bit in its teeth, and break out into the language of the
tavern. The effect can be imagined!

Moreover, all this was mingled in him, with great pretentions to
elegance, toilet, and a fine appearance. Let the reader reconcile
these things as best he can. I am simply the historian.

He had remained, therefore, for several minutes, leaning in
silence against the carved jamb of the chimney, and thinking or
not thinking, when Fleur-de-Lys suddenly turned and addressed
him. After all, the poor young girl was pouting against the
dictates of her heart.

“Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian whom
you saved a couple of months ago, while making the patrol with
the watch at night, from the hands of a dozen robbers?”

“I believe so, fair cousin,” said the captain.

“Well,” she resumed, “perchance ’tis that same gypsy girl who is
dancing yonder, on the church square. Come and see if you
recognize her, fair Cousin Phœbus.”

A secret desire for reconciliation was apparent in this gentle
invitation which she gave him to approach her, and in the care
which she took to call him by name. Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers
(for it is he whom the reader has had before his eyes since the
beginning of this chapter) slowly approached the balcony. “Stay,”
said Fleur-de-Lys, laying her hand tenderly on Phœbus’s arm;
“look at that little girl yonder, dancing in that circle. Is she
your Bohemian?”

Phœbus looked, and said,—

“Yes, I recognize her by her goat.”

“Oh! in fact, what a pretty little goat!” said Amelotte, clasping
her hands in admiration.

“Are his horns of real gold?” inquired Bérangère.

Without moving from her arm-chair, Dame Aloïse interposed, “Is
she not one of those gypsy girls who arrived last year by the
Gibard gate?”

“Madame my mother,” said Fleur-de-Lys gently, “that gate is now
called the Porte d’Enfer.”

Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier knew how her mother’s antiquated
mode of speech shocked the captain. In fact, he began to sneer,
and muttered between his teeth: “Porte Gibard! Porte Gibard! ’Tis
enough to make King Charles VI. pass by.”

“Godmother!” exclaimed Bérangère, whose eyes, incessantly in
motion, had suddenly been raised to the summit of the towers of
Notre-Dame, “who is that black man up yonder?”

All the young girls raised their eyes. A man was, in truth,
leaning on the balustrade which surmounted the northern tower,
looking on the Grève. He was a priest. His costume could be
plainly discerned, and his face resting on both his hands. But he
stirred no more than if he had been a statue. His eyes, intently
fixed, gazed into the Place.

It was something like the immobility of a bird of prey, who has
just discovered a nest of sparrows, and is gazing at it.

“’Tis monsieur the archdeacon of Josas,” said Fleur-de-Lys.

“You have good eyes if you can recognize him from here,” said the
Gaillefontaine.

“How he is staring at the little dancer!” went on Diane de
Christeuil.

“Let the gypsy beware!” said Fleur-de-Lys, “for he loves not
Egypt.”

“’Tis a great shame for that man to look upon her thus,” added
Amelotte de Montmichel, “for she dances delightfully.”

“Fair cousin Phœbus,” said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, “Since you know
this little gypsy, make her a sign to come up here. It will amuse
us.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed all the young girls, clapping their hands.

“Why! ’tis not worth while,” replied Phœbus. “She has forgotten
me, no doubt, and I know not so much as her name. Nevertheless,
as you wish it, young ladies, I will make the trial.” And leaning
over the balustrade of the balcony, he began to shout, “Little
one!”

The dancer was not beating her tambourine at the moment. She
turned her head towards the point whence this call proceeded, her
brilliant eyes rested on Phœbus, and she stopped short.

“Little one!” repeated the captain; and he beckoned her to
approach.

The young girl looked at him again, then she blushed as though a
flame had mounted into her cheeks, and, taking her tambourine
under her arm, she made her way through the astonished spectators
towards the door of the house where Phœbus was calling her, with
slow, tottering steps, and with the troubled look of a bird which
is yielding to the fascination of a serpent.

A moment later, the tapestry portière was raised, and the gypsy
appeared on the threshold of the chamber, blushing, confused,
breathless, her large eyes drooping, and not daring to advance
another step.

Bérangère clapped her hands.

Meanwhile, the dancer remained motionless upon the threshold. Her
appearance had produced a singular effect upon these young girls.
It is certain that a vague and indistinct desire to please the
handsome officer animated them all, that his splendid uniform was
the target of all their coquetries, and that from the moment he
presented himself, there existed among them a secret, suppressed
rivalry, which they hardly acknowledged even to themselves, but
which broke forth, none the less, every instant, in their
gestures and remarks. Nevertheless, as they were all very nearly
equal in beauty, they contended with equal arms, and each could
hope for the victory. The arrival of the gypsy suddenly destroyed
this equilibrium. Her beauty was so rare, that, at the moment
when she appeared at the entrance of the apartment, it seemed as
though she diffused a sort of light which was peculiar to
herself. In that narrow chamber, surrounded by that sombre frame
of hangings and woodwork, she was incomparably more beautiful and
more radiant than on the public square. She was like a torch
which has suddenly been brought from broad daylight into the
dark. The noble damsels were dazzled by her in spite of
themselves. Each one felt herself, in some sort, wounded in her
beauty. Hence, their battle front (may we be allowed the
expression,) was immediately altered, although they exchanged not
a single word. But they understood each other perfectly. Women’s
instincts comprehend and respond to each other more quickly than
the intelligences of men. An enemy had just arrived; all felt
it—all rallied together. One drop of wine is sufficient to tinge
a glass of water red; to diffuse a certain degree of ill temper
throughout a whole assembly of pretty women, the arrival of a
prettier woman suffices, especially when there is but one man
present.

Hence the welcome accorded to the gypsy was marvellously glacial.
They surveyed her from head to foot, then exchanged glances, and
all was said; they understood each other. Meanwhile, the young
girl was waiting to be spoken to, in such emotion that she dared
not raise her eyelids.

The captain was the first to break the silence. “Upon my word,”
said he, in his tone of intrepid fatuity, “here is a charming
creature! What think you of her, fair cousin?”

This remark, which a more delicate admirer would have uttered in
a lower tone, at least was not of a nature to dissipate the
feminine jealousies which were on the alert before the gypsy.

Fleur-de-Lys replied to the captain with a bland affectation of
disdain;—“Not bad.”

The others whispered.

At length, Madame Aloïse, who was not the less jealous because
she was so for her daughter, addressed the dancer,—“Approach,
little one.”

“Approach, little one!” repeated, with comical dignity, little
Bérangère, who would have reached about as high as her hips.

The gypsy advanced towards the noble dame.

“Fair child,” said Phœbus, with emphasis, taking several steps
towards her, “I do not know whether I have the supreme honor of
being recognized by you.”

She interrupted him, with a smile and a look full of infinite
sweetness,—

“Oh! yes,” said she.

“She has a good memory,” remarked Fleur-de-Lys.

“Come, now,” resumed Phœbus, “you escaped nimbly the other
evening. Did I frighten you!”

“Oh! no,” said the gypsy.

There was in the intonation of that “Oh! no,” uttered after that
“Oh! yes,” an ineffable something which wounded Fleur-de-Lys.

“You left me in your stead, my beauty,” pursued the captain,
whose tongue was unloosed when speaking to a girl out of the
street, “a crabbed knave, one-eyed and hunchbacked, the bishop’s
bellringer, I believe. I have been told that by birth he is the
bastard of an archdeacon and a devil. He has a pleasant name: he
is called _Quatre-Temps_ (Ember Days), _Pâques-Fleuries_ (Palm
Sunday), _Mardi-Gras_ (Shrove Tuesday), I know not what! The name
of some festival when the bells are pealed! So he took the
liberty of carrying you off, as though you were made for beadles!
’Tis too much. What the devil did that screech-owl want with you?
Hey, tell me!”

“I do not know,” she replied.

“The inconceivable impudence! A bellringer carrying off a wench,
like a vicomte! a lout poaching on the game of gentlemen! that is
a rare piece of assurance. However, he paid dearly for it. Master
Pierrat Torterue is the harshest groom that ever curried a knave;
and I can tell you, if it will be agreeable to you, that your
bellringer’s hide got a thorough dressing at his hands.”

“Poor man!” said the gypsy, in whom these words revived the
memory of the pillory.

The captain burst out laughing.

“Corne-de-bœuf! here’s pity as well placed as a feather in a
pig’s tail! May I have as big a belly as a pope, if—”

He stopped short. “Pardon me, ladies; I believe that I was on the
point of saying something foolish.”

“Fie, sir” said la Gaillefontaine.

“He talks to that creature in her own tongue!” added
Fleur-de-Lys, in a low tone, her irritation increasing every
moment. This irritation was not diminished when she beheld the
captain, enchanted with the gypsy, and, most of all, with
himself, execute a pirouette on his heel, repeating with coarse,
naïve, and soldierly gallantry,—

“A handsome wench, upon my soul!”

“Rather savagely dressed,” said Diane de Christeuil, laughing to
show her fine teeth.

This remark was a flash of light to the others. Not being able to
impugn her beauty, they attacked her costume.

“That is true,” said la Montmichel; “what makes you run about the
streets thus, without guimpe or ruff?”

“That petticoat is so short that it makes one tremble,” added la
Gaillefontaine.

“My dear,” continued Fleur-de-Lys, with decided sharpness, “You
will get yourself taken up by the sumptuary police for your
gilded girdle.”

“Little one, little one;” resumed la Christeuil, with an
implacable smile, “if you were to put respectable sleeves upon
your arms they would get less sunburned.”

It was, in truth, a spectacle worthy of a more intelligent
spectator than Phœbus, to see how these beautiful maidens, with
their envenomed and angry tongues, wound, serpent-like, and
glided and writhed around the street dancer. They were cruel and
graceful; they searched and rummaged maliciously in her poor and
silly toilet of spangles and tinsel. There was no end to their
laughter, irony, and humiliation. Sarcasms rained down upon the
gypsy, and haughty condescension and malevolent looks. One would
have thought they were young Roman dames thrusting golden pins
into the breast of a beautiful slave. One would have pronounced
them elegant grayhounds, circling, with inflated nostrils, round
a poor woodland fawn, whom the glance of their master forbade
them to devour.

After all, what was a miserable dancer on the public squares in
the presence of these high-born maidens? They seemed to take no
heed of her presence, and talked of her aloud, to her face, as of
something unclean, abject, and yet, at the same time, passably
pretty.

The gypsy was not insensible to these pin-pricks. From time to
time a flush of shame, a flash of anger inflamed her eyes or her
cheeks; with disdain she made that little grimace with which the
reader is already familiar, but she remained motionless; she
fixed on Phœbus a sad, sweet, resigned look. There was also
happiness and tenderness in that gaze. One would have said that
she endured for fear of being expelled.

Phœbus laughed, and took the gypsy’s part with a mixture of
impertinence and pity.

“Let them talk, little one!” he repeated, jingling his golden
spurs. “No doubt your toilet is a little extravagant and wild,
but what difference does that make with such a charming damsel as
yourself?”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the blonde Gaillefontaine, drawing up
her swan-like throat, with a bitter smile. “I see that messieurs
the archers of the king’s police easily take fire at the handsome
eyes of gypsies!”

“Why not?” said Phœbus.

At this reply uttered carelessly by the captain, like a stray
stone, whose fall one does not even watch, Colombe began to
laugh, as well as Diane, Amelotte, and Fleur-de-Lys, into whose
eyes at the same time a tear started.

The gypsy, who had dropped her eyes on the floor at the words of
Colombe de Gaillefontaine, raised them beaming with joy and pride
and fixed them once more on Phœbus. She was very beautiful at
that moment.

The old dame, who was watching this scene, felt offended, without
understanding why.

“Holy Virgin!” she suddenly exclaimed, “what is it moving about
my legs? Ah! the villanous beast!”

It was the goat, who had just arrived, in search of his mistress,
and who, in dashing towards the latter, had begun by entangling
his horns in the pile of stuffs which the noble dame’s garments
heaped up on her feet when she was seated.

This created a diversion. The gypsy disentangled his horns
without uttering a word.

“Oh! here’s the little goat with golden hoofs!” exclaimed
Bérangère, dancing with joy.

The gypsy crouched down on her knees and leaned her cheek against
the fondling head of the goat. One would have said that she was
asking pardon for having quitted it thus.

Meanwhile, Diane had bent down to Colombe’s ear.

“Ah! good heavens! why did not I think of that sooner? ’Tis the
gypsy with the goat. They say she is a sorceress, and that her
goat executes very miraculous tricks.”

“Well!” said Colombe, “the goat must now amuse us in its turn,
and perform a miracle for us.”

Diane and Colombe eagerly addressed the gypsy.

“Little one, make your goat perform a miracle.”

“I do not know what you mean,” replied the dancer.

“A miracle, a piece of magic, a bit of sorcery, in short.”

“I do not understand.” And she fell to caressing the pretty
animal, repeating, “Djali! Djali!”

At that moment Fleur-de-Lys noticed a little bag of embroidered
leather suspended from the neck of the goat,—

“What is that?” she asked of the gypsy.

The gypsy raised her large eyes upon her and replied gravely,—

“That is my secret.”

“I should really like to know what your secret is,” thought
Fleur-de-Lys.

Meanwhile, the good dame had risen angrily,—“Come now, gypsy, if
neither you nor your goat can dance for us, what are you doing
here?”

The gypsy walked slowly towards the door, without making any
reply. But the nearer she approached it, the more her pace
slackened. An irresistible magnet seemed to hold her. Suddenly
she turned her eyes, wet with tears, towards Phœbus, and halted.

“True God!” exclaimed the captain, “that’s not the way to depart.
Come back and dance something for us. By the way, my sweet love,
what is your name?”

“La Esmeralda,” said the dancer, never taking her eyes from him.

At this strange name, a burst of wild laughter broke from the
young girls.

“Here’s a terrible name for a young lady,” said Diane.

“You see well enough,” retorted Amelotte, “that she is an
enchantress.”

“My dear,” exclaimed Dame Aloïse solemnly, “your parents did not
commit the sin of giving you that name at the baptismal font.”

In the meantime, several minutes previously, Bérangère had coaxed
the goat into a corner of the room with a marchpane cake, without
any one having noticed her. In an instant they had become good
friends. The curious child had detached the bag from the goat’s
neck, had opened it, and had emptied out its contents on the rush
matting; it was an alphabet, each letter of which was separately
inscribed on a tiny block of boxwood. Hardly had these playthings
been spread out on the matting, when the child, with surprise,
beheld the goat (one of whose “miracles” this was no doubt), draw
out certain letters with its golden hoof, and arrange them, with
gentle pushes, in a certain order. In a moment they constituted a
word, which the goat seemed to have been trained to write, so
little hesitation did it show in forming it, and Bérangère
suddenly exclaimed, clasping her hands in admiration,—

“Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, see what the goat has just done!”

Fleur-de-Lys ran up and trembled. The letters arranged upon the
floor formed this word,—

PHŒBUS.

“Was it the goat who wrote that?” she inquired in a changed
voice.

“Yes, godmother,” replied Bérangêre.

It was impossible to doubt it; the child did not know how to
write.

“This is the secret!” thought Fleur-de-Lys.

Meanwhile, at the child’s exclamation, all had hastened up, the
mother, the young girls, the gypsy, and the officer.

The gypsy beheld the piece of folly which the goat had committed.
She turned red, then pale, and began to tremble like a culprit
before the captain, who gazed at her with a smile of satisfaction
and amazement.

“Phœbus!” whispered the young girls, stupefied: “’tis the
captain’s name!”

“You have a marvellous memory!” said Fleur-de-Lys, to the
petrified gypsy. Then, bursting into sobs: “Oh!” she stammered
mournfully, hiding her face in both her beautiful hands, “she is
a magician!” And she heard another and a still more bitter voice
at the bottom of her heart, saying,—“She is a rival!”

She fell fainting.

“My daughter! my daughter!” cried the terrified mother. “Begone,
you gypsy of hell!”

In a twinkling, La Esmeralda gathered up the unlucky letters,
made a sign to Djali, and went out through one door, while
Fleur-de-Lys was being carried out through the other.

Captain Phœbus, on being left alone, hesitated for a moment
between the two doors, then he followed the gypsy.