“No, Captain; let us go to the Vieille Science.”
“No, the wine is better at the Pomme d‘Eve; and besides, at the door is a vine in the sun, which cheers me as I drink.”
“So be it,” said the student; and taking Phoebus by the arm, the two friends set out for that tavern. It is needless to say that they first picked up the money, and that the archdeacon followed them.
The archdeacon followed them, sad and worn. Was this the Ph?bus whose accursed name, since his interview with Gringoire, had mingled with all his thoughts? He knew not; but at any rate it was a Phoebus, and that magic name was enough to make the archdeacon follow the two heedless comrades with stealthy tread, listening to their every word and noting their least gesture with eager attention. Moreover, nothing was easier than to hear everything they said; for they spoke very loud, utterly regardless of the fact that they were taking the passers-by into their confidence. They talked of duels, women, drinking, and riots.
At the corner of a street the sound of a tambourine was heard from a neighboring cross-way. Dom Claude overheard the officer say to the student,— “Thunder! We must hasten.”
“Why, Ph?bus?”
“I’m afraid the gipsy girl will see me.”
“What gipsy girl?”
“That little thing with the goat.”
“Smeralda?”
“Just so, Jehan. I always forget her devil of a name. Make haste; she would be sure to recognize me. I don’t wish to have that girl accost me in the street.”
“Do you know her, Ph?bus?”
Here the archdeacon saw Phoebus chuckle, put his mouth to Jehan’s ear, and whisper a few words to him; then he burst out laughing, and shook his head with a triumphant air.
“Really?” said Jehan.
“Upon my soul!” said Phoebus.
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
“Are you sure she will come?”
“Are you mad, Jehan? How can there be any doubt in such matters?”
“Captain Phoebus, you are a lucky soldier!”
The archdeacon heard every word of this conversation. His teeth chattered; he shook from head to foot. He stood still a moment, leaned against a post like a drunken man, then followed in the track of the two jolly scamps.
When he rejoined them they had changed the subject. He heard them singing at the top of their voices the old refrain:— “The lads of Petty-Tiles, they say,
Like calves are butchered every day.”
CHAPTER VII
The Spectre Monk
The famous tavern known as the Pomme d‘Eve was situated in the University, at the corner of the Rue de la Rondelle and the Rue du Batonnier. It was a large, low room on the ground-floor, with an arched roof, the central spring of which rested on a huge wooden pillar painted yellow; there were tables in every direction, shining pewter jugs hung on the wall; there were always plenty of topers, lots of girls, a window looking on the street, a vine at the door, and over the door a creaking piece of sheet iron, on which were painted a woman and an apple, rusted by the rain and swinging in the wind on an iron rod. This kind of weathercock, which overlooked the pavement, was the sign.
Night was falling; the streets were dark. The tavern full of candles, flared from a distance like a forge in the gloom; a noise of glasses, of feasting, of oaths, and of quarrels escaped from the broken window-panes. Through the mist with which the heat of the room covered the glazed casement in front of the inn swarmed a myriad confused figures, and from time to time a ringing burst of laughter was heard. People passing, intent on their own affairs, hastened by that noisy window without a glance; but now and then some little ragged boy would raise himself on tiptoe to the window-sill, and scream into the tavern the old mocking cry with which drunkards were often greeted at this period:— “Back to your glasses,
Ye drunken, drunken asses.”
One man, however, marched imperturbably up and down in front of the noisy tavern, looking continually, and never stirring farther away from it than a pikeman from his sentry-box. His cloak was pulled up to his very nose. This cloak he had just bought from the old-clothes man who lived hard by the Pomme d‘Eve, doubtless to shield himself from the chill of the March evening, perhaps to hide his dress. From time to time he paused before the dim panes set in lead, listened, looked, and stamped his feet impatiently.
At last the tavern door opened. This seemed to be what he was waiting for. Two tipplers came out. The ray of light which escaped through the door, for a moment reddened their jovial faces. The man with the cloak took up his position under a porch on the other side of the street.