Собор Парижской богоматери / Notre-Dame de Paris

Among the thousands of faces which that light tinged with scarlet, there was one which seemed, even more than all the others, absorbed in contemplation of the dancer. It was the face of a man, calm, and sombre. This man, whose costume was concealed by the crowd, did not appear to be more than thirty five years of age; his broad, high forehead had begun to be furrowed with wrinkles, but his deep-set eyes sparkled with extraordinary youthfulness. He kept them fixed on the gypsy. From time to time, he would a smile and let out a sigh.

The young girl, stopped, breathless, and the people applauded her lovingly.

“Djali!” said the gypsy.

Then Gringoire saw a pretty little white goat come up to her.

“Djali!” said the dancer, “it is your turn.”

And, seating herself, she gracefully presented her tambourine to the goat.

“Djali,” she continued, “what month is this?”

The goat lifted its fore foot, and struck one blow upon the tambourine. It was the first month in the year, in fact.

“Djali,” pursued the young girl, turning her tambourine round, “what day of the month is this?”

Djali raised his little gilt hoof, and struck six blows on the tambourine.

The people were amazed.

“There’s sorcery at the bottom of it,” said a sinister voice in the crowd. It was that of the man, who never removed his eyes from the gypsy.

She continued to question her goat.

“Djali, what does Master Guichard Grand-Remy, captain of the pistoliers of the town do, at the procession of Candlemas?”

Djali reared himself on his hind legs, and began to bleat, marching along with so much dainty gravity, that the entire circle of spectators burst into a laugh at this parody of the interested devoutness of the captain of pistoliers.

The crowd applauded louder than ever.

“Sacrilege!” resumed the voice of the bald man.

The gypsy turned around.

“Ah!” said she, “’tis that villanous man!” Then she executed a pirouette on her heel, and set about[4 - set about – отправилась] collecting in her tambourine the gifts of the multitude.

Money showered into it.

All at once, she passed in front of Gringoire. Gringoire put his hand into his pocket to find it empty. The pretty girl stood there, waiting.

An unexpected incident came to his rescue.

“Will you take yourself off, you Egyptian grasshopper?” cried a sharp voice.

The young girl turned round. It was no longer the voice of the bald man; it was the voice of a woman.