Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

lack hair round her to cover the white robe, and set up the pitcher and flag-stone, the only furniture she
had, in front of her, trusting that they would conceal her. This done, finding herself calmer, she knelt
down and prayed. The day, which was only just dawning, left abundant darkness still in the Rat-Hole.
At this moment the voice of the priest—that voice from hell—sounded close to the cell, crying: “This
way, Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers!”
At that name, uttered by that voice, Esmeralda, cowering in her corner, made a movement.
“Do not stir!” murmured Gudule.
She had scarcely spoken before a tumultuous crowd of men and horses stopped in front of the cell. The
mother rose hastily and posted herself at the loophole to cover the aperture. She beheld a strong body of
armed men, horse and foot, drawn up in the Grève. Their commander dismounted and came towards her.
“Old woman,” said this man, whose face wore a repulsive expression, “we are seeking a witch to hang
her. They tell us you had hold of her.”
The poor mother assumed the most unconscious air she was able.
“I do not quite take your meaning,” she answered.
“Tête-Dieu! Then what was this story of the crazy Archdeacon’s?” said Tristan. “Where is he?”
“My lord,” said one of the soldiers, “he has disappeared.”
“Go to, old hag,” the commander went on; “lie not to me. A witch was given into thy hand. What hast
thou done with her?
The recluse feared to deny altogether lest she should arouse suspicion, so she answered in a truthful but
surly tone:
“If you mean a strong young wench that they thrust into my hands awhile ago, I can tell you that she bit
me, and I let her go. That’s all I know. Leave me in peace.”
The commander pulled a disappointed face. “Let me have no lies, old spectre!” he said. “My name is
Tristan l’Hermite, and I am the King’s Gossip. Tristan l’Hermite, dost thou hear?” and he added,
casting his eyes round the Place de Grève, “ ’tis a name that has echoes here.”
“And if you were Satan l’Hermite,” retorted Gudule, gathering hope, “I would have nothing different to
say to you, nor would I be afraid of you!”
“Tête-Dieu!” exclaimed Tristan, “here’s a vixen! So the witch girl escaped! And which way did she
go?”
“Through the Rue du Mouton, I think,” answered Gudule carelessly.
Tristan turned and signed to his men to prepare for resuming their march. The recluse breathed again.
“Monseigneur,” said an archer suddenly, “ask the old beldame how it is that her window-bars are
broken thus?”
This question plunged the wretched mother back into despair. Still she did not lose all presence of mind.