ess Djali.

"That's a pretty animal of yours," said Gringoire.

"She is my sister," she answered.

"Why are you called 'la Esmeralda?'" asked the poet.

"I do not know."

"But why?"

She drew from her bosom a sort of little oblong bag, suspended from her
neck by a string of adrezarach beads. This bag exhaled a strong odor of
camphor. It was covered with green silk, and bore in its centre a large
piece of green glass, in imitation of an emerald.

"Perhaps it is because of this," said she.

Gringoire was on the point of taking the bag in his hand. She drew back.

"Don't touch it! It is an amulet. You would injure the charm or the
charm would injure you."

The poet's curiosity was more and more aroused.

"Who gave it to you?"

She laid one finger on her mouth and concealed the amulet in her bosom.
He tried a few more questions, but she hardly replied.

"What is the meaning of the words, 'la Esmeralda?'"

"I don't know," said she.

"To what language do they belong?"

"They are Egyptian, I think."

"I suspected as much," said Gringoire, "you are not a native of France?"

"I don't know."

"Are your parents alive?"

She began to sing, to an ancient air,--

_Mon pere est oiseau,
Ma mere est oiselle.
Je passe l'eau sans nacelle,
Je passe l'eau sans bateau,
Ma mere est oiselle,
Mon pere est oiseau_.*

* My father is a bird, my mother is a bird. I cross the
water without a barque, I cross the water without a boat. My mother is a
bird, my father is a bird.

"Good," said Gringoire. "At what age did you come to France?"

"When I was very young."

"And when to Paris?"

"Last year. At the moment when we were entering the papal gate I saw
a reed warbler flit through the air, that was at the end of August; I
said, it will be a hard winter."

"So it was," said Gringoire, delighted at this beginning of a
conversation. "I passed it in blowing my fingers. So you have the gift
of prophecy?"

She retired into her laconics again.

"Is that man whom you call the Duke of Egypt, the chief of your tribe?"

"Yes."

"But it was he who married us," remarked the poet timidly.

She made her customary pretty grimace.

"I don't even know your name."

"My name? If you want it, here it is,--Pierre Gringoire."

"I know a prettier one," said she.

"Naughty girl!" retorted the poet. "Never mind, you shall not provoke
me. Wait, perhaps you will love me more when you know me better; and
t