The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [140]
“Phoebus,” said the priest; “and why ‘Phœbus’?”
“I don’t know,” answered Gringoire. “It may be a word which she thinks has some secret magic virtue. She often repeats it in an undertone when she thinks she is alone.”
“Are you sure,” returned Claude, with his penetrating glance, “that it is a word, and not a name?”
“Whose name?” said the poet.
“How do I know?” said the priest.
“This is what I believe, sir. These gipsies are a kind of fire-worshippers, and worship the sun. Hence, ‘Phœbus.”’
“That is not so clear to me as to you, Master Pierre.”
“Never mind; it doesn’t concern me. Let her mumble her ‘Phœbus’ as much as she likes. I’m sure of one thing; and that is, that Djali is almost as fond of me as of her.”
“Who is Djali?”
“That’s the goat.”
The archdeacon rested his chin on his hand, and seemed for a moment lost in thought. Suddenly he turned abruptly to Gringoire.
“And you swear that you have never touched her?”
“Who?” said Gringoire,—“the goat?”
“No, that woman.”
“My wife? I swear I never have.”
“And you are often alone with her?”
“A good hour every evening.”
Dom Claude frowned.
“Oh! oh! Solus cum sola non cogitabuntur orare Pater noster.”ch
“By my soul! I might repeat the Pater, and the Ave Maria, and the Credo in Deum patrem omnipotentem, without her taking any more notice of me than a hen would of a church.”
“Swear to me by your mother’s soul,” repeated the archdeacon, vehemently, “that you have never laid the tip of your finger upon the girl.”
“I will swear it by my father’s head as well, if you like. But, my reverend master, let me ask one question in my turn.”
“Speak, sir.”
“What difference does it make to you?”
The archdeacon’s pale face turned red as a girl’s cheek. For a moment he made no answer; then, with evident embarrassment, he said,—
“Hark ye, Master Pierre Gringoire. You are not yet damned, so far as I know. I am interested in you, and wish you well. Now, the slightest contact with that devilish gipsy girl would make you the slave of Satan. You know that it is always the body which destroys the soul. Woe betide you if you approach that woman! That is all.”
“I tried it once,” said Gringoire, scratching his ear. “That was the first day; but I got stung.”
“Had you the effrontery, Master Pierre?”
And the priest’s face clouded.
“Another time,” said the