CHAPTER 7. A BRIDAL NIGHT.
Gringoire ceased, awaiting the effect of his harangue on the
young girl. Her eyes were fixed on the ground.
"'Phoebus,'" she said in a low voice. Then, turning towards
the poet, "'Phoebus',--what does that mean?"
Gringoire, without exactly understanding what the connection
could be between his address and this question, was not
sorry to display his erudition. Assuming an air of importance,
"It is a Latin word which means 'sun.'"
"Sun!" she repeated.
"It is the name of a handsome archer, who was a god,"
"A god!" repeated the gypsy, and there was something pensive and
passionate in her tone.
At that moment, one of her bracelets became unfastened
and fell. Gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up; when he
straightened up, the young girl and the goat had disappeared.
He heard the sound of a bolt. It was a little door, communicating,
no doubt, with a neighboring cell, which was being
fastened on the outside.
"Has she left me a bed, at least?" said our philosopher.
He made the tour of his cell. There was no piece of furniture
adapted to sleeping purposes, except a tolerably long
wooden coffer; and its cover was carved, to boot; which
afforded Gringoire, when he stretched himself out upon it, a
sensation somewhat similar to that which Micromégas would
feel if he were to lie down on the Alps.
"Come!" said he, adjusting himself as well as possible, "I
must resign myself. But here's a strange nuptial night. 'Tis
a pity. There was something innocent and antediluvian about
that broken crock, which quite pleased me."