THE DANGER OF CONFIDING ONE’S SECRET TO A GOAT.
Many had elapsed.
The of March had arrived. The sun, which Dubartas, that of periphrase, had not yet the “Grand-duke of Candles,” was none the less and on that account. It was one of those days which so much and beauty, that all Paris out into the and and them as though they were Sundays. In those days of brilliancy, warmth, and serenity, there is a hour above all others, when the façade of Notre-Dame should be admired. It is the moment when the sun, already the west, looks the almost full in the face. Its rays, more and more horizontal, slowly from the of the square, and up the façade, thousand in high they to start out from the shadows, while the great rose window like the of a cyclops, with the of the forge.
This was the hour.
Opposite the cathedral, by the setting sun, on the above the of a rich Gothic house, which the of the square and the Rue du Parvis, girls were laughing and with every of and mirth. From the length of the which from their pointed coif, with pearls, to their heels, from the of the which their and allowed a glimpse, according to the of the time, of the of their bosoms, from the of their under-petticoats still more than their (marvellous refinement), from the gauze, the silk, the velvet, with which all this was composed, and, above all, from the of their hands, which to their and idleness, it was easy to they were and heiresses. They were, in fact, Damoiselle Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and her companions, Diane de Christeuil, Amelotte de Montmichel, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and the little de Champchevrier maiden; all of good birth, assembled at that moment at the house of the de Gondelaurier, on account of Monseigneur de Beaujeu and Madame his wife, who were to come to Paris in the month of April, there to choose of for the Dauphiness Marguerite, who was to be in Picardy from the hands of the Flemings. Now, all the for twenty around were for this for their daughters, and a number of the had been already or sent to Paris. These four had been to the and of Madame Aloïse de Gondelaurier, of a of the king’s cross-bowmen, who had retired with her only to her house in the Place du Parvis, Notre-Dame, in Paris.
The on which these girls opened from a in fawn-colored Flanders leather, with foliage. The beams, which cut the in lines, the with a thousand painted and carvings. Splendid here and there on chests; a boar’s in faïence a dresser, two that the of the house was the wife or of a banneret. At the end of the room, by the of a with arms from top to bottom, in a rich red arm-chair, sat Dame de Gondelaurier, five and fifty years were upon her no less than upon her face.
Beside her a man of mien, although of and bravado—one of those all agree to admire, although men learned in their at them. This man the of a captain of the king’s archers, which too much to the of Jupiter, which the reader has already been to in the book of this history, for us to upon him a second description.
The were seated, a part in the chamber, a part in the balcony, some on square of Utrecht with corners, others on of in flowers and figures. Each of them on her a of a great tapestry, on which they were in company, while one end of it upon the which the floor.
They were together in that and with the half-stifled laughs to an of girls in there is a man. The man presence to set in play all these self-conceits, appeared to pay very little to the matter, and, while these were with one another to his attention, he to be in the of his with his glove. From time to time, the old lady him in a very low tone, and he as well as he was able, with a of and politeness.
From the and of Dame Aloïse, from the which she her daughter, Fleur-de-Lys, as she spoke low to the captain, it was easy to see that there was here a question of some concluded, some marriage near at hand no doubt, the man and Fleur-de-Lys. From the embarrassed of the officer, it was easy to see that on his side, at least, love had no longer any part in the matter. His whole air was of and weariness, which our of the would to-day as, “What a bore!”
The dame, very much with her daughter, like any other mother, did not the officer’s of enthusiasm, and in low to call his attention to the with which Fleur-de-Lys used her or her skein.
“Come, little cousin,” she said to him, him by the sleeve, in order to speak in his ear, “Look at her, do! see her stoop.”
“Yes, truly,” the man, and into his and absent-minded silence.
A moment later, he was to again, and Dame Aloïse said to him,—
“Have you a more and than that of your betrothed? Can one be more white and blonde? are not her hands perfect? and that neck—does it not assume all the of the in fashion? How I you at times! and how happy you are to be a man, that you are! Is not my Fleur-de-Lys beautiful, and are you not in love with her?”
“Of course,” he replied, still of something else.
“But do say something,” said Madame Aloïse, his a push; “you have very timid.”
We can our readers that was neither the captain’s his defect. But he an to do what was of him.
“Fair cousin,” he said, Fleur-de-Lys, “what is the of this work which you are fashioning?”
“Fair cousin,” Fleur-de-Lys, in an tone, “I have already told you three times. ’Tis the of Neptune.”
It was that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more than her mother through the captain’s cold and absent-minded manner. He the of making some conversation.
“And for is this Neptunerie destined?”
“For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine Champs,” answered Fleur-de-Lys, without her eyes.
The captain took up a of the tapestry.
“Who, my cousin, is this big gendarme, who is out his to their full and a trumpet?”
“’Tis Triton,” she replied.
There was a in Fleur-de-Lys’s words. The man that it was that he should something in her ear, a commonplace, a compliment, no what. Accordingly he down, but he nothing in his more and personal than this,—
“Why your mother always wear that with designs, like our of the time of Charles VII.? Tell her, cousin, that ’tis no longer the fashion, and that the (gond) and the (laurier) on her give her the air of a walking mantlepiece. In truth, people no longer thus on their banners, I you.”
Fleur-de-Lys her eyes, full of reproach, “Is that all of which you can me?” she said, in a low voice.
In the meantime, Dame Aloïse, to see them thus each other and whispering, said as she with the of her prayer-book,—
“Touching picture of love!”
The captain, more and more embarrassed, upon the of the tapestry,—“’Tis, in sooth, a work!” he exclaimed.
Whereupon Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another blonde, with a white skin, to the in damask, a which she to Fleur-de-Lys, in the that the captain would reply to it, “My dear Gondelaurier, have you the of the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon?”
“Is not that the hôtel in which is the garden of the Lingère du Louvre?” asked Diane de Christeuil with a laugh; for she had teeth, and laughed on every occasion.
“And where there is that big, old tower of the of Paris,” added Amelotte de Montmichel, a fresh and curly-headed brunette, who had a of just as the other laughed, without why.
“My dear Colombe,” Dame Aloïse, “do you not the hôtel which to Monsieur de Bacqueville, in the of King Charles VI.? there are many superb high there.”
“Charles VI.! Charles VI.!” the captain, his moustache. “Good heavens! what old the good remember!”
Madame de Gondelaurier continued, “Fine tapestries, in truth. A work so that it as unrivalled.”
At that moment Bérangère de Champchevrier, a little of seven years, who was into the square through the of the balcony, exclaimed, “Oh! look, Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, at that dancer who is dancing on the and playing the in the of the bourgeois!”
The of a was, in fact, audible. “Some from Bohemia,” said Fleur-de-Lys, toward the square.
“Look! look!” her companions; and they all ran to the of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, by the of her betrothed, them slowly, and the latter, by this incident, which put an end to an conversation, to the end of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier from duty. Nevertheless, the Fleur-de-Lys’s was a and service, and such it had appeared to him; but the captain had blasé; the of a marriage him more every day. Moreover, he was of a disposition, and, must we say it, in taste. Although of very birth, he had in his official more than one of the common trooper. The and its pleased him. He was only at his language, gallantries, beauties, and successes yet more easy. He had, nevertheless, from his family some education and some of manner; but he had been on the world too young, he had been in at too early an age, and every day the of a more and more by the of his gendarme’s cross-belt. While still to visit her from time to time, from a of common respect, he embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; in the place, because, in of having his love in all of places, he had very little for her; in the next place, because, so many stiff, formal, and ladies, he was in his mouth, to oaths, should take the in its teeth, and out into the language of the tavern. The can be imagined!
Moreover, all this was in him, with great to elegance, toilet, and a appearance. Let the reader these as best he can. I am the historian.
He had remained, therefore, for minutes, in against the of the chimney, and or not thinking, when Fleur-de-Lys and him. After all, the girl was against the of her heart.
“Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian you saved a of months ago, while making the with the watch at night, from the hands of a dozen robbers?”
“I so, cousin,” said the captain.
“Well,” she resumed, “perchance ’tis that same girl who is dancing yonder, on the church square. Come and see if you her, Cousin Phœbus.”
A for was in this which she gave him to approach her, and in the which she took to call him by name. Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers (for it is he the reader has had his since the of this chapter) slowly approached the balcony. “Stay,” said Fleur-de-Lys, her hand on Phœbus’s arm; “look at that little girl yonder, dancing in that circle. Is she your Bohemian?”
Phœbus looked, and said,—
“Yes, I her by her goat.”
“Oh! in fact, what a little goat!” said Amelotte, her hands in admiration.
“Are his of gold?” Bérangère.
Without moving from her arm-chair, Dame Aloïse interposed, “Is she not one of those girls who last year by the Gibard gate?”
“Madame my mother,” said Fleur-de-Lys gently, “that gate is now called the Porte d’Enfer.”
Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier how her mother’s mode of speech the captain. In fact, he to sneer, and his teeth: “Porte Gibard! Porte Gibard! ’Tis to make King Charles VI. pass by.”
“Godmother!” Bérangère, eyes, in motion, had been to the of the towers of Notre-Dame, “who is that black man up yonder?”
All the girls their eyes. A man was, in truth, on the which the northern tower, looking on the Grève. He was a priest. His be discerned, and his on his hands. But he no more than if he had been a statue. His eyes, fixed, into the Place.
It was something like the of a bird of prey, who has just a of sparrows, and is at it.
“’Tis the of Josas,” said Fleur-de-Lys.
“You have good if you can him from here,” said the Gaillefontaine.
“How he is at the little dancer!” on Diane de Christeuil.
“Let the beware!” said Fleur-de-Lys, “for he loves not Egypt.”
“’Tis a great for that man to look upon her thus,” added Amelotte de Montmichel, “for she delightfully.”
“Fair Phœbus,” said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, “Since you know this little gypsy, make her a to come up here. It will us.”
“Oh, yes!” all the girls, their hands.
“Why! ’tis not while,” Phœbus. “She has me, no doubt, and I know not so much as her name. Nevertheless, as you wish it, ladies, I will make the trial.” And over the of the balcony, he to shout, “Little one!”
The dancer was not her at the moment. She her the point this call proceeded, her rested on Phœbus, and she stopped short.
“Little one!” the captain; and he her to approach.
The girl looked at him again, then she as though a had into her cheeks, and, taking her under her arm, she her way through the the door of the house where Phœbus was calling her, with slow, steps, and with the look of a bird which is to the of a serpent.
A moment later, the portière was raised, and the appeared on the of the chamber, blushing, confused, breathless, her large drooping, and not to another step.
Bérangère her hands.
Meanwhile, the dancer upon the threshold. Her had produced a upon these girls. It is that a and to the officer them all, that his was the of all their coquetries, and that from the moment he presented himself, there among them a secret, rivalry, which they to themselves, but which forth, none the less, every instant, in their and remarks. Nevertheless, as they were all very nearly equal in beauty, they with equal arms, and each for the victory. The of the this equilibrium. Her was so rare, that, at the moment when she appeared at the entrance of the apartment, it as though she a of light which was to herself. In that narrow chamber, by that of and woodwork, she was more and more than on the public square. She was like a which has been from into the dark. The were by her in of themselves. Each one herself, in some sort, in her beauty. Hence, their (may we be allowed the expression,) was altered, although they not a single word. But they each other perfectly. Women’s and respond to each other more than the of men. An enemy had just arrived; all it—all together. One of is to a of water red; to a of a whole of women, the of a woman suffices, when there is but one man present.
Hence the welcome to the was glacial. They her from to foot, then glances, and all was said; they each other. Meanwhile, the girl was waiting to be spoken to, in such that she not her eyelids.
The captain was the to the silence. “Upon my word,” said he, in his of fatuity, “here is a creature! What think you of her, cousin?”
This remark, which a more would have in a tone, at least was not of a nature to the which were on the the gypsy.
Fleur-de-Lys to the captain with a of disdain;—“Not bad.”
The others whispered.
At length, Madame Aloïse, who was not the less she was so for her daughter, the dancer,—“Approach, little one.”
“Approach, little one!” repeated, with dignity, little Bérangère, who would have about as high as her hips.
The the dame.
“Fair child,” said Phœbus, with emphasis, taking steps her, “I do not know I have the of being by you.”
She him, with a and a look full of sweetness,—
“Oh! yes,” said she.
“She has a good memory,” Fleur-de-Lys.
“Come, now,” Phœbus, “you the other evening. Did I you!”
“Oh! no,” said the gypsy.
There was in the of that “Oh! no,” after that “Oh! yes,” an something which Fleur-de-Lys.
“You left me in your stead, my beauty,” the captain, was when speaking to a girl out of the street, “a knave, one-eyed and hunchbacked, the bishop’s bellringer, I believe. I have been told that by birth he is the of an and a devil. He has a name: he is called Quatre-Temps (Ember Days), Pâques-Fleuries (Palm Sunday), Mardi-Gras (Shrove Tuesday), I know not what! The name of some when the are pealed! So he took the of you off, as though you were for beadles! ’Tis too much. What the did that screech-owl want with you? Hey, tell me!”
“I do not know,” she replied.
“The impudence! A off a wench, like a vicomte! a on the game of gentlemen! that is a piece of assurance. However, he paid for it. Master Pierrat Torterue is the that a knave; and I can tell you, if it will be to you, that your bellringer’s got a at his hands.”
“Poor man!” said the gypsy, in these the memory of the pillory.
The captain out laughing.
“Corne-de-bœuf! here’s as well as a in a pig’s tail! May I have as big a as a pope, if—”
He stopped short. “Pardon me, ladies; I that I was on the point of saying something foolish.”
“Fie, sir” said la Gaillefontaine.
“He talks to that in her own tongue!” added Fleur-de-Lys, in a low tone, her every moment. This was not when she the captain, with the gypsy, and, most of all, with himself, a on his heel, with coarse, naïve, and gallantry,—
“A wench, upon my soul!”
“Rather dressed,” said Diane de Christeuil, laughing to her teeth.
This was a of light to the others. Not being able to her beauty, they her costume.
“That is true,” said la Montmichel; “what makes you about the thus, without or ruff?”
“That is so that it makes one tremble,” added la Gaillefontaine.
“My dear,” Fleur-de-Lys, with sharpness, “You will taken up by the police for your girdle.”
“Little one, little one;” la Christeuil, with an smile, “if you were to put upon your arms they would less sunburned.”
It was, in truth, a of a more than Phœbus, to see how these maidens, with their and angry tongues, wound, serpent-like, and and around the dancer. They were and graceful; they and in her and of and tinsel. There was no end to their laughter, irony, and humiliation. Sarcasms upon the gypsy, and and looks. One would have they were Roman into the of a slave. One would have them grayhounds, circling, with nostrils, a fawn, the of their master them to devour.
After all, what was a dancer on the public in the presence of these high-born maidens? They to take no of her presence, and talked of her aloud, to her face, as of something unclean, abject, and yet, at the same time, pretty.
The was not to these pin-pricks. From time to time a of shame, a of anger her or her cheeks; with she that little with which the reader is already familiar, but she motionless; she on Phœbus a sad, sweet, look. There was also and in that gaze. One would have said that she for of being expelled.
Phœbus laughed, and took the gypsy’s part with a mixture of and pity.
“Let them talk, little one!” he repeated, his spurs. “No your is a little and wild, but what that make with such a as yourself?”
“Good gracious!” the Gaillefontaine, up her swan-like throat, with a smile. “I see that the of the king’s police easily take fire at the of gypsies!”
“Why not?” said Phœbus.
At this reply by the captain, like a stone, one not watch, Colombe to laugh, as well as Diane, Amelotte, and Fleur-de-Lys, into at the same time a tear started.
The gypsy, who had her on the at the of Colombe de Gaillefontaine, them with and and them once more on Phœbus. She was very at that moment.
The old dame, who was this scene, offended, without why.
“Holy Virgin!” she exclaimed, “what is it moving about my legs? Ah! the beast!”
It was the goat, who had just arrived, in search of his mistress, and who, in the latter, had by his in the of which the dame’s up on her when she was seated.
This a diversion. The his without a word.
“Oh! here’s the little with hoofs!” Bérangère, dancing with joy.
The on her and her against the of the goat. One would have said that she was for having it thus.
Meanwhile, Diane had to Colombe’s ear.
“Ah! good heavens! why did not I think of that sooner? ’Tis the with the goat. They say she is a sorceress, and that her very tricks.”
“Well!” said Colombe, “the must now us in its turn, and perform a for us.”
Diane and Colombe the gypsy.
“Little one, make your perform a miracle.”
“I do not know what you mean,” the dancer.
“A miracle, a piece of magic, a of sorcery, in short.”
“I do not understand.” And she to the animal, repeating, “Djali! Djali!”
At that moment Fleur-de-Lys noticed a little of leather from the of the goat,—
“What is that?” she asked of the gypsy.
The her large upon her and gravely,—
“That is my secret.”
“I should like to know what your is,” Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, the good had angrily,—“Come now, gypsy, if neither you your can for us, what are you doing here?”
The walked slowly the door, without making any reply. But the nearer she approached it, the more her slackened. An to her. Suddenly she her eyes, wet with tears, Phœbus, and halted.
“True God!” the captain, “that’s not the way to depart. Come and something for us. By the way, my sweet love, what is your name?”
“La Esmeralda,” said the dancer, taking her from him.
At this name, a of wild from the girls.
“Here’s a terrible name for a lady,” said Diane.
“You see well enough,” Amelotte, “that she is an enchantress.”
“My dear,” Dame Aloïse solemnly, “your did not the of you that name at the font.”
In the meantime, minutes previously, Bérangère had the into a of the room with a cake, without any one having noticed her. In an they had good friends. The child had the from the goat’s neck, had opened it, and had out its on the matting; it was an alphabet, each of which was on a of boxwood. Hardly had these been spread out on the matting, when the child, with surprise, the (one of “miracles” this was no doubt), out with its hoof, and them, with pushes, in a order. In a moment they a word, which the to have been to write, so little did it in it, and Bérangère exclaimed, her hands in admiration,—
“Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, see what the has just done!”
Fleur-de-Lys ran up and trembled. The upon the this word,—
PHŒBUS.
“Was it the who that?” she in a voice.
“Yes, godmother,” Bérangêre.
It was to it; the child did not know how to write.
“This is the secret!” Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, at the child’s exclamation, all had up, the mother, the girls, the gypsy, and the officer.
The the piece of which the had committed. She red, then pale, and to like a the captain, who at her with a of and amazement.
“Phœbus!” the girls, stupefied: “’tis the captain’s name!”
“You have a memory!” said Fleur-de-Lys, to the gypsy. Then, into sobs: “Oh!” she mournfully, her in her hands, “she is a magician!” And she another and a still more voice at the of her heart, saying,—“She is a rival!”
She fainting.
“My daughter! my daughter!” the mother. “Begone, you of hell!”
In a twinkling, La Esmeralda up the unlucky letters, a to Djali, and out through one door, while Fleur-de-Lys was being out through the other.
Captain Phœbus, on being left alone, for a moment the two doors, then he the gypsy.
