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She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty Djali followed her. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She examined him for a moment in silence. "You are going to hang this man?" she said gravely, to Clopin. "Yes, sister," replied the King of Thunes, "unless you will take him for your husband." She made her pretty little pout with her under lip. "I'll take him," said she.
It was the poor goat, the agile Djali, which had made its escape after her, at the moment when Quasimodo had put to flight Charmolue's brigade, and which had been lavishing caresses on her feet for nearly an hour past, without being able to win a glance. The gypsy covered him with kisses. "Oh! Djali!" she said, "how I have forgotten thee! And so thou still thinkest of me!
She called Djali, took her between her knees, and smoothed the long delicate head, saying, "Come, kiss mistress; you have no troubles." Then noting the melancholy face of the graceful animal, who yawned slowly, she softened, and comparing her to herself, spoke to her aloud as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling.
"Djali," pursued the Egyptian, with still another movement of the tambourine, "what hour of the day is it?" Djali struck seven blows. At that moment, the clock of the Pillar House rang out seven. The people were amazed. "There's sorcery at the bottom of it," said a sinister voice in the crowd. It was that of the bald man, who never removed his eyes from the gypsy.
The young girl's mind was elsewhere, and Gringoire's voice had not the power to recall it. Fortunately, the goat interfered. She began to pull her mistress gently by the sleeve. "What dost thou want, Djali?" said the gypsy, hastily, as though suddenly awakened. "She is hungry," said Gringoire, charmed to enter into conversation.
Then Gringoire saw come up to her, a pretty little white goat, alert, wide-awake, glossy, with gilded horns, gilded hoofs, and gilded collar, which he had not hitherto perceived, and which had remained lying curled up on one corner of the carpet watching his mistress dance. "Djali!" said the dancer, "it is your turn." And, seating herself, she gracefully presented her tambourine to the goat.
"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."
Djali reared himself on his hind legs, and began to bleat, marching along with so much dainty gravity, that the entire circle of spectators burst into a laugh at this parody of the interested devoutness of the captain of pistoliers. "Djali," resumed the young girl, emboldened by her growing success, "how preaches Master Jacques Charmolue, procurator to the king in the ecclesiastical court?"
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 Phoebus, on being left alone, hesitated for a moment between the two doors, then he followed the gypsy.
She shuddered and turned round; but applause broke forth and drowned the morose exclamation. It even effaced it so completely from her mind, that she continued to question her goat. "Djali, what does Master Guichard Grand-Remy, captain of the pistoliers of the town do, at the procession of Candlemas?"
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