e
illuminated, with a red flaring light, which trembled, all alive, over
the circle of faces in the crowd, on the brow of the young girl, and at
the background of the Place cast a pallid reflection, on one side upon
the ancient, black, and wrinkled facade of the House of Pillars, on the
other, upon the old stone gibbet.

Among the thousands of visages which that light tinged with scarlet,
there was one which seemed, even more than all the others, absorbed in
contemplation of the dancer. It was the face of a man, austere, calm,
and sombre. This man, whose costume was concealed by the crowd which
surrounded him, did not appear to be more than five and thirty years of
age; nevertheless, he was bald; he had merely a few tufts of thin, gray
hair on his temples; his broad, high forehead had begun to be furrowed
with wrinkles, but his deep-set eyes sparkled with extraordinary
youthfulness, an ardent life, a profound passion. He kept them fixed
incessantly on the gypsy, and, while the giddy young girl of sixteen
danced and whirled, for the pleasure of all, his revery seemed to become
more and more sombre. From time to time, a smile and a sigh met upon his
lips, but the smile was more melancholy than the sigh.

The young girl, stopped at length, breathless, and the people applauded
her lovingly.

"Djali!" said the gypsy.

Then Gringoire saw come up to her, a pretty little white goat, alert,
wide-awake, glossy, with gilded horns, gilded hoofs, and gilded collar,
which he had not hitherto perceived, and which had remained lying curled
up on one corner of the carpet watching his mistress dance.

"Djali!" said the dancer, "it is your turn."

And, seating herself, she gracefully presented her tambourine to the
goat.

"Djali," she continued, "what month is this?"

The goat lifted its fore foot, and struck one blow upon the tambourine.
It was the first month in the year, in fact.

"Djali," pursued the young girl, turning her tambourine round, "what day
of the month is this?"

Djali raised his little gilt hoof, and struck six blows on the
tambourine.

"Djali," pursued the Egyptian, with still another movement of the
tambourine, "what hour of the day is it?"

Djali struck seven blows. At that moment, the clock of the Pillar House
rang out seven.

The people were amazed.

"There's sorcery at the bottom of it," said a sinister voice in the
crowd. It was that of the bald man, who never removed his eyes from the
gypsy.