Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

girl, who had sat pale and dreamy, started from her reverie. She brusquely tore herself away from the
too enterprising young officer, and catching sight of her bare neck and shoulders, blushing, confused,
and mute with shame, she crossed her beautiful arms over her bosom to hide it. But for the flame that
burned in her cheeks, to see her thus standing, silent and motionless, with drooping eyes, you would have
taken her for a statue of Modesty.
But this action of the captain’s had laid bare the mysterious amulet which she wore round her neck.
“What is that?” he asked, seizing this pretext for once more approaching the beautiful creature he had
frightened away.
“Do not touch it,” she answered quickly, “it is my protection. Through it I shall find my parents again
if I remain worthy of that. Oh, leave me, Monsieur le Captaine! Mother! my poor mother! where art
thou? Come to my aid! Have pity, Monsieur Phœbus—give me back my kerchief to cover my bosom.”
But Phœbus drew back coldly. “Ah, mademoiselle,” he said, “I see very plainly that you do not love
me!”
“Not love him!” cried the poor unhappy child, clinging wildly to him and drawing him down to the seat
beside her. “I do not love thee, my Phœbus? What words are these, cruel, to rend my heart! Oh,
come—take me! take all! do with me what thou wilt! I am thine. What matters the amulet! What is my
mother to me now! Thou art father and mother to me now, since I love thee! Phœbus, beloved, look at
me—see, ’tis I—’tis that poor little one whom thou wilt not spurn from thee, and who comes, who comes
herself to seek thee. My soul, my life, myself—all, all belong to thee, my captain. Well, so be it—we will
not marry, since it is not thy wish. Besides, what am I but a miserable child of the gutter, while thou, my
Phœbus, art a gentleman. A fine thing, truly! A dancing girl to espouse an officer! I was mad! No,
Phœbus, I will be thy paramour, thy toy, thy pleasure—what thou wilt—only something that belongs to
thee—for what else was I made? Soiled, despised, dishonoured, what care I? if only I be loved I shall be
the proudest and happiest of women. And when I shall be old and ugly, when I am no longer worthy of
your love, monseigneur, you will suffer me to serve you. Others will embroider scarfs for you—I, the
handmaid, will have care of them. You will let me polish your spurs, brush your doublet, and rub the dust
from off your riding-boots—will you not, Phœbus? You will grant me so much? And meanwhile, take
me—I am thine—only love me! We gipsies, that is all we ask—love and the free air of heaven!”
Speaking thus, she threw her arms around the soldier’s neck and raised her eyes to his in fond entreaty,
smiling through her tears. Her tender bosom was chafed by the woolen doublet and its rough embroidery
as the fair, half-nude form clung to his breast. The captain, quite intoxicated, pressed his lips to those
exquisite shoulders, and the girl, lying back in his arms, with half-closed eyes, glowed and trembled
under his kisses.
Suddenly above the head of Phœbus she beheld another head—a livid, convulsed face with the look as
of one of the damned, and beside that face a raised hand holding a dagger. It was the face and the hand
of the priest. He had broken in the door and stood behind the pair. Phœbus could not see him.
The girl lay motionless, petrified and speechless with terror at the appalling apparition, like a dove that
raises her head and catches the terrible keen eye of the hawk fixed upon her nest.
She was unable to even cry out. She saw the dagger descend upon Phœbus and rise again, reeking.