turned into a wasp, and asked nothing better than to
sting.

Our philosopher was speechless, and turned his astonished eyes from the
goat to the young girl. "Holy Virgin!" he said at last, when surprise
permitted him to speak, "here are two hearty dames!"

The gypsy broke the silence on her side.

"You must be a very bold knave!"

"Pardon, mademoiselle," said Gringoire, with a smile. "But why did you
take me for your husband?"

"Should I have allowed you to be hanged?"

"So," said the poet, somewhat disappointed in his amorous hopes. "You
had no other idea in marrying me than to save me from the gibbet?"

"And what other idea did you suppose that I had?"

Gringoire bit his lips. "Come," said he, "I am not yet so triumphant in
Cupido, as I thought. But then, what was the good of breaking that poor
jug?"

Meanwhile Esmeralda's dagger and the goat's horns were still upon the
defensive.

"Mademoiselle Esmeralda," said the poet, "let us come to terms. I am
not a clerk of the court, and I shall not go to law with you for
thus carrying a dagger in Paris, in the teeth of the ordinances and
prohibitions of M. the Provost. Nevertheless, you are not ignorant of
the fact that Noel Lescrivain was condemned, a week ago, to pay ten
Parisian sous, for having carried a cutlass. But this is no affair of
mine, and I will come to the point. I swear to you, upon my share of
Paradise, not to approach you without your leave and permission, but do
give me some supper."

The truth is, Gringoire was, like M. Despreaux, "not very voluptuous."
He did not belong to that chevalier and musketeer species, who take
young girls by assault. In the matter of love, as in all other affairs,
he willingly assented to temporizing and adjusting terms; and a good
supper, and an amiable tete-a-tete appeared to him, especially when
he was hungry, an excellent interlude between the prologue and the
catastrophe of a love adventure.

The gypsy did not reply. She made her disdainful little grimace, drew
up her head like a bird, then burst out laughing, and the tiny poniard
disappeared as it had come, without Gringoire being able to see where
the wasp concealed its sting.

A moment later, there stood upon the table a loaf of rye bread, a slice
of bacon, some wrinkled apples and a jug of beer. Gringoire began to eat
eagerly. One would have said, to hear the furious clashing of his
iron fork and his earthenware plate, that all his love had turned to
ap