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All the details of her melancholy adventure, from the nocturnal scene at la Falourdel's to her condemnation to the Tournelle, recurred to her memory, no longer vague and confused as heretofore, but distinct, harsh, clear, palpitating, terrible.
Yet that hand produced an impression of cold upon her. "Oh!" she murmured, "'tis the icy hand of death. Who are you?" The priest threw back his cowl; she looked. It was the sinister visage which had so long pursued her; that demon's head which had appeared at la Falourdel's, above the head of her adored Phoebus; that eye which she last had seen glittering beside a dagger.
"What, the devil!" said Phoebus, "you know my name!" "I know not your name alone," continued the man in the mantle, with his sepulchral voice. "You have a rendezvous this evening." "Yes," replied Phoebus in amazement. "At seven o'clock." "In a quarter of an hour." "At la Falourdel's." "Precisely." "The lewd hag of the Pont Saint-Michel." "Of Saint Michel the archangel, as the Pater Noster saith."
In what order was he arranging in his mind la Esmeralda, Phoebus, Jacques Charmolue, his young brother so beloved, yet abandoned by him in the mire, his archdeacon's cassock, his reputation perhaps dragged to la Falourdel's, all these adventures, all these images? I cannot say. But it is certain that these ideas formed in his mind a horrible group.
You know that I made an appointment with that little girl at the end of the Pont Saint-Michel, and I can only take her to the Falourdel's, the old crone of the bridge, and that I must pay for a chamber. The old witch with a white moustache would not trust me. Jehan! for pity's sake! Have we drunk up the whole of the cure's purse? Have you not a single parisis left?"
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