Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

The Egyptian advanced towards the noble lady.
“Pretty one,” said Phœbus, impressively advancing on his side a step or two towards her, “I know not if
I enjoy the supreme felicity of being remembered by you; but—”
She interrupted him, with a smile and a glance of infinite sweetness—“Oh, yes,” she said.
“She has a good memory,” observed Fleur-de-Lys.
“Well,” resumed Phœbus, “but you fled in a great hurry that evening. Were you frightened of me?”
“Oh, no,” answered the gipsy. And in the tone of this “Oh, no,” following on the “Oh, yes,” there was
an indefinable something which stabbed poor Fleur-de-Lys to the heart.
“You left in your stead, ma belle,” continued the soldier, whose tongue was loosened now that he spoke
to a girl of the streets, “a wry-faced, one-eyed hunchback varlet—the Bishop’s bell-ringer, by what I can
hear. They tell me he is an archdeacon’s bastard and a devil by birth. He has a droll name too—Ember
Week—Palm Sunday—Shrove Tuesday—something of that kind—some bell-ringing festival name, at
any rate. And so he had the assurance to carry you off, as if you were made for church beadles! It was
like his impudence. And what the devil did he want with you, this screech-owl, eh?”
“I do not know,” she answered.
“Conceive of such insolence! A bell-ringer to carry off a girl, like a vicomte—a clown poaching on a
gentleman’s preserves! Unheard-of presumption! For the rest, he paid dearly for it. Master Pierrat
Torterue is the roughest groom that ever curried a rascal; and I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that
your bell-ringer’s hide got a thorough dressing at his hands.”
“Poor man!” murmured the gipsy, recalling at these words the scene of the pillory.
The captain burst out laughing. “Corne de bœuf! your pity is as well-placed as a feather in a sow’s tail!
May I have a paunch like a pope, if—” He drew up short. “Crave your pardon, mesdames! I believe I
was on the point of forgetting myself.”
“Fie, sir!” said La Gaillefontaine.
“He speaks to this creature in her own language,” said Fleur-de-Lys under her breath, her vexation
increasing with every moment. Nor was this vexation diminished by seeing the captain delighted with the
gipsy girl, but still more with himself, turn on his heel and repeat with blatant and soldier-like gallantry:
“A lovely creature on my soul!”
“Very barbarously dressed!” observed Diane de Christeuil, showing her white teeth.
This remark was a flash of light to the others. It showed them where to direct their attack on the gipsy.
There being no vulnerable spot in her beauty, they threw themselves upon her dress.
“That is very true,” said La Montmichel. “Pray, how comest thou to be running thus barenecked about
the streets, without either gorget or kerchief?”
“And a petticoat so short as to fill one with alarm,” added La Gaillefontaine.
“My girl,” continued Fleur-de-Lys spitefully, “thou wilt certainly be fined for that gold belt.”