Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

Office.”
“And may I ask, sir,” said Gringoire, “what all these worthies are about?”
“They are trying some one.”
“Trying whom? I see no prisoner.”
“It is a woman, sir. You cannot see her. She has her back turned to us, and is hidden by the crowd.
Look, she is over there where you see that group of partisans.”
“Who is the woman?” asked Gringoire; “do you know her name?”
“No, sir, I have but just arrived. I conclude, however, from the presence of the Office that there is some
question of witchcraft in the matter.”
“Ah, ha!” said our philosopher, “so we shall have the pleasure of seeing these black gowns devouring
human flesh! Well, it is a spectacle as good as any other.”
“Do you not think, sir, that Maître Jacques Charmolue has a very kindly air?” observed his neighbour.
“Hum!” responded Gringoire. “I am somewhat distrustful of kindness that has such thin nostrils and
sharp lips.”
Here the bystanders imposed silence on the two talkers. An important deposition was being heard.
“My lords,” an old woman was saying, whose face and shape generally was so muffled in her garments
that she looked like an animated heap of rags; “my lords, the thing is as true as that I am La Falourdel,
for forty years a householder on the Pont Saint-Michel, and paying regularly all rents and dues and
ground taxes—the door opposite to the house of Tassin-Caillart, the dyer, which is on the side looking up
the river. A poor old woman now, a pretty girl once-a-days, my lords! Only a few days before, they said
to me: ‘La Falourdel, do not spin too much of an evening, the devil is fond of combing old women’s
distaffs with his horns. ’Tis certain that the spectre-monk who haunted the Temple last year is going
about the city just now; take care, La Falourdel, that he does not knock at your door.’ I ask who’s there.
Some one swears. I open the door. Two men come in—a man in black with a handsome officer. You could
see nothing of the black with a handsome officer. You could see nothing of the black man but his
eyes—two live coals—all the rest hat and cloak. So they say to me: ‘The Sainte-Marthe room’—that is
my upper room, my lords, my best one, and they give me a crown. I shut the crown in a drawer, and says
I: ‘That will do to buy tripe to-morrow at the slaughterhouse of La Gloriette.’ We go upstairs. Arrived at
the upper room, as I turn my back a moment, the man in black disappears. This astonishes me somewhat.
The officer, who was handsome and grand as a lord, comes down again with me. He leaves the house,
but in about the time to spin a quarter of a skein he returns with a beautiful young girl—a poppet who
would have shone like a star had her locks been properly braided. Following her came a goat—a great
goat—whether black or white I can’t remember. This set me to thinking. The girl—that does not concern
me—but the goat! I don’t like those animals with their beards and horns—it’s too like a man.
“Besides, that smells of witchcraft. However, I say nothing. I had the crown piece. That is only fair, is it
not, my lord judge? So I show the captain and the girl into the upper room and leave them alone—that is
to say, with the goat. I go down and get to my spinning again. I must tell you that my house has a ground
floor and an upper storey; the back looks out on to the river, as do all the houses on the bridge, and the