ion was an habitual incident of the public highways, like the
braising-pan of the baker or the slaughter-house of the knacker. The
executioner was only a sort of butcher of a little deeper dye than the
rest.

Hence Phoebus's mind was soon at ease on the score of the enchantress
Esmeralda, or Similar, as he called her, concerning the blow from the
dagger of the Bohemian or of the surly monk (it mattered little which
to him), and as to the issue of the trial. But as soon as his heart was
vacant in that direction, Fleur-de-Lys returned to it. Captain Phoebus's
heart, like the physics of that day, abhorred a vacuum.

Queue-en-Brie was a very insipid place to stay at then, a village
of farriers, and cow-girls with chapped hands, a long line of poor
dwellings and thatched cottages, which borders the grand road on both
sides for half a league; a tail (queue), in short, as its name imports.

Fleur-de-Lys was his last passion but one, a pretty girl, a charming
dowry; accordingly, one fine morning, quite cured, and assuming that,
after the lapse of two months, the Bohemian affair must be completely
finished and forgotten, the amorous cavalier arrived on a prancing horse
at the door of the Gondelaurier mansion.

He paid no attention to a tolerably numerous rabble which had assembled
in the Place du Parvis, before the portal of Notre-Dame; he remembered
that it was the month of May; he supposed that it was some procession,
some Pentecost, some festival, hitched his horse to the ring at the
door, and gayly ascended the stairs to his beautiful betrothed.

She was alone with her mother.

The scene of the witch, her goat, her cursed alphabet, and Phoebus's
long absences, still weighed on Fleur-de-Lys's heart. Nevertheless, when
she beheld her captain enter, she thought him so handsome, his doublet
so new, his baldrick so shining, and his air so impassioned, that she
blushed with pleasure. The noble damsel herself was more charming than
ever. Her magnificent blond hair was plaited in a ravishing manner, she
was dressed entirely in that sky blue which becomes fair people so well,
a bit of coquetry which she had learned from Colombe, and her eyes were
swimming in that languor of love which becomes them still better.

Phoebus, who had seen nothing in the line of beauty, since he left the
village maids of Queue-en-Brie, was intoxicated with Fleur-de-Lys, which
imparted to our officer so eager and gallant an air, that his peace
was im