BOOK SECOND.
CHAPTER 6. THE BROKEN JUG.
(continued)
"You are unlucky, comrade," said Clopin.
Then rising to his feet, upon his hogshead. "No one wants
him," he exclaimed, imitating the accent of an auctioneer, to
the great delight of all; "no one wants him? once, twice,
three times!" and, turning towards the gibbet with a sign of
his hand, "Gone!"
Bellevigne de l'Etoile, Andry the Red, François Chante-Prune,
stepped up to Gringoire.
At that moment a cry arose among the thieves: "La Esmeralda!
La Esmeralda!"
Gringoire shuddered, and turned towards the side whence the
clamor proceeded.
The crowd opened, and gave passage to a pure and dazzling
form.
It was the gypsy.
"La Esmeralda!" said Gringoire, stupefied in the midst of
his emotions, by the abrupt manner in which that magic word
knotted together all his reminiscences of the day.
This rare creature seemed, even in the Cour des Miracles,
to exercise her sway of charm and beauty. The vagabonds,
male and female, ranged themselves gently along her path, and
their brutal faces beamed beneath her glance.
She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty
Djali followed her. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She
examined him for a moment in silence.
"You are going to hang this man?" she said gravely, to Clopin.
"Yes, sister," replied the King of Thunes, "unless you will
take him for your husband."
She made her pretty little pout with her under lip. "I'll take
him," said she.
Gringoire firmly believed that he had been in a dream ever
since morning, and that this was the continuation of it.
The change was, in fact, violent, though a gratifying one.
They undid the noose, and made the poet step down from the
stool. His emotion was so lively that he was obliged to sit down.
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