"

"That does not seem so clear to me as to you, Master Pierre."

"After all, that does not concern me. Let her mumble her Phoebus at her
pleasure. One thing is certain, that Djali loves me almost as much as he
does her."

"Who is Djali?"

"The goat."

The archdeacon dropped his chin into his hand, and appeared to reflect
for a moment. All at once he turned abruptly to Gringoire once more.

"And do you swear to me that you have not touched her?"

"Whom?" said Gringoire; "the goat?"

"No, that woman."

"My wife? I swear to you that I have not."

"You are often alone with her?"

"A good hour every evening."

Porn Claude frowned.

"Oh! oh! _Solus cum sola non cogitabuntur orare Pater Noster_."

"Upon my soul, I could say the _Pater_, and the _Ave Maria_, and
the _Credo in Deum patrem omnipotentem_ without her paying any more
attention to me than a chicken to a church."

"Swear to me, by the body of your mother," repeated the archdeacon
violently, "that you have not touched that creature with even the tip of
your finger."

"I will also swear it by the head of my father, for the two things
have more affinity between them. But, my reverend master, permit me a
question in my turn."

"Speak, sir."

"What concern is it of yours?"

The archdeacon's pale face became as crimson as the cheek of a young
girl. He remained for a moment without answering; then, with visible
embarrassment,--

"Listen, Master Pierre Gringoire. You are not yet damned, so far as
I know. I take an interest in you, and wish you well. Now the least
contact with that Egyptian of the demon would make you the vassal of
Satan. You know that 'tis always the body which ruins the soul. Woe to
you if you approach that woman! That is all."

"I tried once," said Gringoire, scratching his ear; "it was the first
day: but I got stung."

"You were so audacious, Master Pierre?" and the priest's brow clouded
over again.

"On another occasion," continued the poet, with a smile, "I peeped
through the keyhole, before going to bed, and I beheld the most
delicious dame in her shift that ever made a bed creak under her bare
foot."

"Go to the devil!" cried the priest, with a terrible look; and, giving
the amazed Gringoire a push on the shoulders, he plunged, with long
strides, under the gloomiest arcades of the cathedral.

CHAPTER III. THE BELLS.

After the morning in the pillory, the neighbors of Notre-Dame thought
they noticed that