to have me fall, you will not have to utter even a word, a glance will
suffice."

Then he rose. Unhappy as was the Bohemian, this eccentric being still
aroused some compassion in her. She made him a sign to remain.

"No, no," said he; "I must not remain too long. I am not at my ease. It
is out of pity that you do not turn away your eyes. I shall go to some
place where I can see you without your seeing me: it will be better so."

He drew from his pocket a little metal whistle.

"Here," said he, "when you have need of me, when you wish me to come,
when you will not feel too ranch horror at the sight of me, use this
whistle. I can hear this sound."

He laid the whistle on the floor and fled.

CHAPTER IV. EARTHENWARE AND CRYSTAL.

Day followed day. Calm gradually returned to the soul of la Esmeralda.
Excess of grief, like excess of joy is a violent thing which lasts but
a short time. The heart of man cannot remain long in one extremity. The
gypsy had suffered so much, that nothing was left her but astonishment.
With security, hope had returned to her. She was outside the pale of
society, outside the pale of life, but she had a vague feeling that it
might not be impossible to return to it. She was like a dead person, who
should hold in reserve the key to her tomb.

She felt the terrible images which had so long persecuted her,
gradually departing. All the hideous phantoms, Pierrat Torterue, Jacques
Charmolue, were effaced from her mind, all, even the priest.

And then, Phoebus was alive; she was sure of it, she had seen him. To
her the fact of Phoebus being alive was everything. After the series of
fatal shocks which had overturned everything within her, she had found
but one thing intact in her soul, one sentiment,--her love for the
captain. Love is like a tree; it sprouts forth of itself, sends its
roots out deeply through our whole being, and often continues to
flourish greenly over a heart in ruins.

And the inexplicable point about it is that the more blind is this
passion, the more tenacious it is. It is never more solid than when it
has no reason in it.

La Esmeralda did not think of the captain without bitterness, no doubt.
No doubt it was terrible that he also should have been deceived; that he
should have believed that impossible thing, that he could have conceived
of a stab dealt by her who would have given a thousand lives for him.
But, after all, she must not be too angry with him for it; h