Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

specification of the expenses of the action against Gillet Soulart and his sow, “executed for their
demerits” at Corbeil. Everything is detailed—the cost of the pit to put the sow into; the five hundred
bundles of wood from the wharf of Morsant; the three pints of wine and the bread, the victims’ last meal,
fraternally shared by the executioner; and even the eleven days’ custody and keep of the sow at eight
deniers parisis per day. At times they went beyond animals. The capitularies of Charlemagne and Louis
le Débonnaire impose severe penalties on fiery phantoms who had the assurance to appear in the air.
Meanwhile the procurator of the Ecclesiastical Court exclaimed, “If the demon that possesses this goat,
and which has resisted every exorcism, persist in his sorceries, if he terrify the court thereby, we
forewarn him that we shall be constrained to proceed against him with the gibbet or the stake.”
Gringoire broke out in a cold sweat.
Charmolue then took from the table the gipsy’s tambourine, and presenting it in a certain manner to the
goat, he asked: “What is the time of day?”
The goat regarded him with a sagacious eye, lifted her gilded hoof, and struck seven strokes. It was in
truth seven o’clock. A thrill of horror ran through the crowd.
Gringoire could contain himself no longer. “She will be her own ruin!” he exclaimed aloud. “You can
see for yourself she has no knowledge of what she is doing.”
“Silence down there!” cried the usher sharply.
Jacques Charmolue, by means of the same manœuvrings with the tambourine, made the goat perform
several other tricks in connection with the date of the day, the month of the year, etc., which the reader
has already witnessed. And by an optical illusion peculiar to judicial proceedings, these same spectators,
who doubtless had often applauded Djali’s innocent performances in the public streets, were terrified by
them under the roof of the Palais de Justice. The goat was indisputably the devil.
It was much worse, however, when the procurator, having emptied on the floor a certain little leather
bag full of movable letters hanging from Djali’s neck, the goat was seen to separate from the scattered
alphabet the letters of the fatal name “Phœbus.” The magic of which the captain had been a victim
seemed incontrovertibly proven; and, in the eyes of all, the gipsy girl, the charming dancer who had so
often dazzled the passer-by with her exquisite grace, was nothing more nor less than a horrible witch.
As for her, she gave no sign of life. Neither Djali’s pretty tricks nor the menaces of the lawyers, nor the
stifled imprecations of the spectators—nothing reached her apprehension any more.
At last, in order to rouse her, a sergeant had to shake her pitilessly by the arm, and the President
solemnly raised his voice:
“Girl, you are of the race of Bohemians, and given to sorcery. In company with your accomplice, the
bewitched goat, also implicated in this charge, you did, on the night of the twenty-ninth of March last, in
concert with the powers of darkness, and by the aid of charms and shells, wound and poniard a captain
of the King’s archers, Phœbus de Châteaupers by name. Do you persist in your denial?”
“Horrors!” cried the girl, covering her face with her hands. “My Phœbus! Oh, this is hell!”
“Do you persist in your denial?” repeated the President coldly.