Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

Again she shrugged her white shoulders.
“I do not know.”
“Oh, by ’r Lord!” exclaimed the mother, “there are so many sorceresses nowadays that they burn
them, I dare swear, without knowing their names. As well might you try to know the name of every cloud
in heaven. But, after all, we may make ourselves easy; the good God keeps his register above.” Here the
venerable lady rose and approached the window. “Lord,” she cried, “you are right, Phœbus, there is
indeed a great concourse of the people—some of them even, God save us, on the very roofs! Ah, Phœbus,
that brings back to me my young days and the entry of Charles VII, when there were just such crowds—I
mind not precisely in what year. When I speak of that to you it doubtless sounds like something very old,
but to me it is as fresh as to-day. Oh, it was a far finer crowd than this! Some of them climbed up on to
the battlements of the Porte Saint-Antoine. The King had the Queen on the crupper behind him; and after
their highnesses came all the ladies mounted behind their lords. I remember, too, there was much
laughter because by the side of Amanyon de Garlande, who was very short, there came the Sire
Matefelon, a knight of gigantic stature, who had killed the English in heaps. It was very fine. Then
followed a procession of all the nobles of France, with their oriflammes fluttering red before one. There
were some with pennons and some with banners—let me think—the Sire de Calan had a pennon, Jean de
Châteaumorant a banner, and a richer than any of the others except the Duke of Bourbon. Alas! ’tis sad
to think that all that has been, and that nothing of it now remains!”
The two young people were not listening to the worthy dowager. Phœbus had returned to lean over the
back of his lady-love’s chair—a charming post which revealed to his libertine glance so many exquisite
things, and enabled him to divine so many more that, ravished by that satin-shimmering skin, he said to
himself, “How can one love any but a blonde?”
Neither spoke. The girl lifted to him, from time to time, a glance full of tenderness and devotion, and
their locks mingled in a ray of the vernal sunshine.
“Phœbus,” said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, in a half-whisper, “we are to marry in three months—swear to
me that you have never loved any woman but myself.”
“I swear it, fairest angel!” returned Phœbus; and his passionate glance combined with the sincere tone
of his voice to convince Fleur-de-Lys of the truth of his assertion. And, who knows, perhaps he believed it
himself at the moment.
Meanwhile the good mother, rejoiced to see the two young people in such perfect accord, had left the
apartment to attend to some domestic matter. Phœbus was aware of the fact, and this solitude à deux so
emboldened the enterprising captain that some strange ideas began to arise in his mind. Fleur-de-Lys
loved him—he was betrothed to her—she was alone with him—his old inclination for her had
revived—not perhaps in all its primitive freshness, but certainly in all its ardour—after all, it was no
great crime to cut a little of one’s own corn in the blade. I know not if these thoughts passed distinctly
through his mind; but at any rate, Fleur-de-Lys suddenly took alarm at the expression of his
countenance. She looked about her and discovered that her mother was gone.
“Heavens!” said she, blushing and uneasy, “I am very hot.”
“I think, indeed,” replied Phœbus, “that it cannot be far from noon. The sun is oppressive—the best
remedy is to draw the curtain.”