Phoebus was not dead, however. Men of that stamp die hard. When MasterPhilippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary of the king, had said to poorEsmeralda; "He is dying," it was an error or a jest. When the archdeaconhad repeated to the condemned girl; "He is dead," the fact is that heknew nothing about it, but that he believed it, that he counted on it,that he did not doubt it, that he devoutly hoped it. It would have beentoo hard for him to give favorable news of his rival to the woman whomhe loved. Any man would have done the same in his place.
It was not that Phoebus's wound had not been serious, but it had notbeen as much so as the archdeacon believed. The physician, to whom thesoldiers of the watch had carried him at the first moment, had fearedfor his life during the space of a week, and had even told him so inLatin. But youth had gained the upper hand; and, as frequently happens,in spite of prognostications and diagnoses, nature had amused herself bysaving the sick man under the physician's very nose. It was while hewas still lying on the leech's pallet that he had submitted to theinterrogations of Philippe Lheulier and the official inquisitors,which had annoyed him greatly. Hence, one fine morning, feeling himselfbetter, he had left his golden spurs with the leech as payment, and hadslipped away. This had not, however, interfered with the progress of theaffair. Justice, at that epoch, troubled itself very little about theclearness and definiteness of a criminal suit. Provided that the accusedwas hung, that was all that was necessary. Now the judge had plenty ofproofs against la Esmeralda. They had supposed Phoebus to be dead, andthat was the end of the matter.
Phoebus, on his side, had not fled far. He had simply rejoined hiscompany in garrison at Queue-en-Brie, in the Isle-de-France, a fewstages from Paris.
After all, it did not please him in the least to appear in this suit.He had a vague feeling that he should play a ridiculous figure in it.On the whole, he did not know what to think of the whole affair.Superstitious, and not given to devoutness, like every soldier who isonly a soldier, when he came to question himself about this adventure,he did not feel assured as to the goat, as to the singular fashion inwhich he had met La Esmeralda, as to the no less strange manner in whichshe had allowed him to divine her love, as to her character as a gypsy,and lastly, as to the surly monk. He perceived in all these incidentsmuch more magic than love, probably a sorceress, perhaps the devil;a comedy, in short, or to speak in the language of that day, a verydisagreeable mystery, in which he played a very awkward part, the roleof blows and derision. The captain was quite put out of countenanceabout it; he experienced that sort of shame which our La Fontaine has soadmirably defined,--
Ashamed as a fox who has been caught by a fowl.
Moreover, he hoped that the affair would not get noised abroad, that hisname would hardly be pronounced in it, and that in any case it wouldnot go beyond the courts of the Tournelle. In this he was not mistaken,there was then no "Gazette des Tribunaux;" and as not a week passedwhich had not its counterfeiter to boil, or its witch to hang, or itsheretic to burn, at some one of the innumerable justices of Paris,people were so accustomed to seeing in all the squares the ancientfeudal Themis, bare armed, with sleeves stripped up, performing her dutyat the gibbets, the ladders, and the pillories, that they hardly paidany heed to it. Fashionable society of that day hardly knew the nameof the victim who passed by at the corner of the street, and it was thepopulace at the most who regaled themselves with this coarse fare. Anexecution was an habitual incident of the public highways, like thebraising-pan of the baker or the slaughter-house of the knacker. Theexecutioner was only a sort of butcher of a little deeper dye than therest.
Hence Phoebus's mind was soon at ease on the score of the enchantressEsmeralda, or Similar, as he called her, concerning the blow from thedagger of the Bohemian or of the surly monk (it mattered little whichto him), and as to the issue of the trial. But as soon as his heart wasvacant in that direction, Fleur-de-Lys returned to it. Captain Phoebus'sheart, like the physics of that day, abhorred a vacuum.
Queue-en-Brie was a very insipid place to stay at then, a villageof farriers, and cow-girls with chapped hands, a long line of poordwellings and thatched cottages, which borders the grand road on bothsides 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 charmingdowry; accordingly, one fine morning, quite cured, and assuming that,after the lapse of two months, the Bohemian affair must be completelyfinished and forgotten, the amorous cavalier arrived on a prancing horseat the door of the Gondelaurier mansion.
He paid no attention to a tolerably numerous rabble which had assembledin the Place du Parvis, before the portal of Notre-Dame; he rememberedthat it was the month of May; he supposed that it was some procession,some Pentecost, some festival, hitched his horse to the ring at thedoor, 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'slong absences, still weighed on Fleur-de-Lys's heart. Nevertheless, whenshe beheld her captain enter, she thought him so handsome, his doubletso new, his baldrick so shining, and his air so impassioned, that sheblushed with pleasure. The noble damsel herself was more charming thanever. Her magnificent blond hair was plaited in a ravishing manner, shewas 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 wereswimming in that languor of love which becomes them still better.
Phoebus, who had seen nothing in the line of beauty, since he left thevillage maids of Queue-en-Brie, was intoxicated with Fleur-de-Lys, whichimparted to our officer so eager and gallant an air, that his peacewas immediately made. Madame de Gondelaurier herself, still maternallyseated in her big arm-chair, had not the heart to scold him. As forFleur-de-Lys's reproaches, they expired in tender cooings.
The young girl was seated near the window still embroidering her grottoof Neptune. The captain was leaning over the back of her chair, and shewas addressing her caressing reproaches to him in a low voice.
"What has become of you these two long months, wicked man?"
"I swear to you," replied Phoebus, somewhat embarrassed by the question,"that you are beautiful enough to set an archbishop to dreaming."
She could not repress a smile.
"Good, good, sir. Let my beauty alone and answer my question. A finebeauty, in sooth!"
"Well, my dear cousin, I was recalled to the garrison.
"And where is that, if you please? and why did not you come to sayfarewell?"
"At Queue-en-Brie."
Phoebus was delighted with the first question, which helped him to avoidthe second.
"But that is quite close by, monsieur. Why did you not come to see me asingle time?"
Here Phoebus was rather seriously embarrassed.
"Because--the service--and then, charming cousin, I have been ill."
"Ill!" she repeated in alarm.
"Yes, wounded!"
"Wounded!"
She poor child was completely upset.
"Oh! do not be frightened at that," said Phoebus, carelessly, "it wasnothing. A quarrel, a sword cut; what is that to you?"
"What is that to me?" exclaimed Fleur-de-Lys, raising her beautiful eyesfilled with tears. "Oh! you do not say what you think when you speakthus. What sword cut was that? I wish to know all."
"Well, my dear fair one, I had a falling out with Mahe Fedy, you know?the lieutenant of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and we ripped open a few inchesof skin for each other. That is all."
The mendacious captain was perfectly well aware that an affair ofhonor always makes a man stand well in the eyes of a woman. In fact,Fleur-de-Lys looked him full in the face, all agitated with fear,pleasure, and admiration. Still, she was not completely reassured.
"Provided that you are wholly cured, my Phoebus!" said she. "I do notknow your Mahe Fedy, but he is a villanous man. And whence arose thisquarrel?"
Here Phoebus, whose imagination was endowed
with but mediocre powerof creation, began to find himself in a quandary as to a means ofextricating himself for his prowess.
"Oh! how do I know?--a mere nothing, a horse, a remark! Fair cousin,"he exclaimed, for the sake of changing the conversation, "what noise isthis in the Cathedral Square?"
He approached the window.
"Oh! _Mon Dieu_, fair cousin, how many people there are on the Place!"
"I know not," said Fleur-de-Lys; "it appears that a witch is to dopenance this morning before the church, and thereafter to be hung."
The captain was so thoroughly persuaded that la Esmeralda's affair wasconcluded, that he was but little disturbed by Fleur-de-Lys's words.Still, he asked her one or two questions.
"What is the name of this witch?"
"I do not know," she replied.
"And what is she said to have done?"
She shrugged her white shoulders.
"I know not."
"Oh, _mon Dieu_ Jesus!" said her mother; "there are so many witchesnowadays that I dare say they burn them without knowing their names. Onemight as well seek the name of every cloud in the sky. After all, onemay be tranquil. The good God keeps his register." Here the venerabledame rose and came to the window. "Good Lord! you are right, Phoebus,"said she. "The rabble is indeed great. There are people on all theroofs, blessed be God! Do you know, Phoebus, this reminds me of my bestdays. The entrance of King Charles VII., when, also, there were manypeople. I no longer remember in what year that was. When I speak of thisto you, it produces upon you the effect,--does it not?--the effect ofsomething very old, and upon me of something very young. Oh! thecrowd was far finer than at the present day. They even stood upon themachicolations of the Porte Sainte-Antoine. The king had the queen on apillion, and after their highnesses came all the ladies mounted behindall the lords. I remember that they laughed loudly, because besideAmanyon de Garlande, who was very short of stature, there rode theSire Matefelon, a chevalier of gigantic size, who had killed heaps ofEnglish. It was very fine. A procession of all the gentlemen of France,with their oriflammes waving red before the eye. There were some withpennons and some with banners. How can I tell? the Sire de Calm with apennon; Jean de Chateaumorant with a banner; the Sire de Courcy with abanner, and a more ample one than any of the others except the Duc deBourbon. Alas! 'tis a sad thing to think that all that has existed andexists no longer!"
The two lovers were not listening to the venerable dowager. Phoebushad returned and was leaning on the back of his betrothed's chair, acharming post whence his libertine glance plunged into all the openingsof Fleur-de-Lys's gorget. This gorget gaped so conveniently, and allowedhim to see so many exquisite things and to divine so many more, thatPhoebus, dazzled by this skin with its gleams of satin, said to himself,"How can any one love anything but a fair skin?"
Both were silent. The young girl raised sweet, enraptured eyes to himfrom time to time, and their hair mingled in a ray of spring sunshine.
"Phoebus," said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, in a low voice, "we are to bemarried three months hence; swear to me that you have never loved anyother woman than myself."
"I swear it, fair angel!" replied Phoebus, and his passionate glancesaided the sincere tone of his voice in convincing Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, the good mother, charmed to see the betrothed pair on termsof such perfect understanding, had just quitted the apartment to attendto some domestic matter; Phoebus observed it, and this so emboldenedthe adventurous captain that very strange ideas mounted to his brain.Fleur-de-Lys loved him, he was her betrothed; she was alone with him;his former taste for her had re-awakened, not with all its fresh-nessbut with all its ardor; after all, there is no great harm in tastingone's wheat while it is still in the blade; I do not know whetherthese ideas passed through his mind, but one thing is certain, thatFleur-de-Lys was suddenly alarmed by the expression of his glance. Shelooked round and saw that her mother was no longer there.
"Good heavens!" said she, blushing and uneasy, "how very warm I am?"
"I think, in fact," replied Phoebus, "that it cannot be far from midday.The sun is troublesome. We need only lower the curtains."
"No, no," exclaimed the poor little thing, "on the contrary, I needair."
And like a fawn who feels the breath of the pack of hounds, she rose,ran to the window, opened it, and rushed upon the balcony.
Phoebus, much discomfited, followed her.
The Place du Parvis Notre-Dame, upon which the balcony looked, as thereader knows, presented at that moment a singular and sinister spectaclewhich caused the fright of the timid Fleur-de-Lys to change its nature.
An immense crowd, which overflowed into all the neighboring streets,encumbered the Place, properly speaking. The little wall, breast high,which surrounded the Place, would not have sufficed to keep it freehad it not been lined with a thick hedge of sergeants and hackbuteers,culverines in hand. Thanks to this thicket of pikes and arquebuses, theParvis was empty. Its entrance was guarded by a force of halberdierswith the armorial bearings of the bishop. The large doors of the churchwere closed, and formed a contrast with the innumerable windows on thePlace, which, open to their very gables, allowed a view of thousands ofheads heaped up almost like the piles of bullets in a park of artillery.
The surface of this rabble was dingy, dirty, earthy. The spectaclewhich it was expecting was evidently one of the sort which possess theprivilege of bringing out and calling together the vilest among thepopulace. Nothing is so hideous as the noise which was made by thatswarm of yellow caps and dirty heads. In that throng there were morelaughs than cries, more women than men.
From time to time, a sharp and vibrating voice pierced the generalclamor.
"Ohe! Mahiet Baliffre! Is she to be hung yonder?"
"Fool! t'is here that she is to make her apology in her shift! the goodGod is going to cough Latin in her face! That is always done here, atmidday. If 'tis the gallows that you wish, go to the Greve."
"I will go there, afterwards."
"Tell me, la Boucanbry? Is it true that she has refused a confessor?"
"It appears so, La Bechaigne."
"You see what a pagan she is!"
"'Tis the custom, monsieur. The bailiff of the courts is bound todeliver the malefactor ready judged for execution if he be a layman, tothe provost of Paris; if a clerk, to the official of the bishopric."
"Thank you, sir."