Both were silent. The young girl occasionally looked up at him with rapture and affection, and their hair mingled in a spring sunbeam.
“Ph?bus,” suddenly said Fleur-de-Lys in a low voice, “we are to marry in three months; swear to me that you have never loved any other woman but me.”
“I swear it, lovely angel!” replied Ph?bus, and his passionate gaze combined with the truthful accent of his voice to convince Fleur-de-Lys. Perhaps he even believed himself at that instant.
Meanwhile the good mother, charmed to see the lovers on such excellent terms, had left the room to attend to some domestic detail. Phoebus perceived this, and solitude so emboldened the adventurous captain that his brain soon filled with very strange ideas. Fleur-de-Lys loved him; he was her betrothed; she was alone with him; his former fancy for her revived, not in all its freshness, but in all its ardor. After all, it is no great crime to eat some of your fruit before it is harvested. I know not whether all these thoughts passed through his mind, but certain it is that Fleur-de-Lys was suddenly frightened by the expression of his eyes. She looked about her, and saw that her mother had gone.
“Heavens!” said she, blushing and confused, “how warm I feel!”
“Indeed, I think,” said Ph?bus, “that it must be almost noon. The sun is very annoying; I had better close the curtains.”
“No, no,” cried the poor girl; “on the contrary, I want air.”
And like a deer which feels the hot breath of the pack, she rose, ran to the window, opened it, and rushed out upon the balcony.
Phoebus, vexed enough, followed her.
The square before the cathedral of Notre-Dame, upon which, as we know, the balcony looked, at this moment offered a strange and painful spectacle, which quickly changed the nature of the timid Fleur-de-Lys’ fright.
A vast throng, which overflowed into all the adjacent streets, completely blocked the square. The little wall, breast-high, which surrounded the central part, known as the Parvis, would not have sufficed to keep it clear if it had not been reinforced by a thick hedge of sergeants of the Onze-Vingts and arquebusiers, culverin in hand. Thanks to this thicket of pikes and arquebusiers, it remained empty. The entrance was guarded by a body of halberdiers bearing the bishop’s arms. The wide church-doors were closed, in odd contrast to the countless windows overlooking the square, which, open up to the very gables, revealed thousands of heads heaped one upon the other almost like the piles of cannon-balls in an artillery park.
The surface of this mob was grey, dirty, and foul. The spectacle which it was awaiting was evidently one of those which have the privilege of extracting and collecting all that is most unclean in the population. Nothing could be more hideous than the noise which arose from that swarm of soiled caps and filthy headgear. In that crowd there was more laugher than shouting; there were more women than men.
Now and then some sharp, shrill voice pierced the general uproar.
“Hollo! Mahiet Baliffre. Will she be hung yonder?”
“Fool! that is where she’s to do penance in her shift. The priest will spit a little Latin at her. It’s always done here at noon. If you are looking for the gallows, you must go to the Place de Grève.”
“I’ll go afterwards.”
“I say, Boucanbry, is it true that she has refused a confessor?”
“So it seems, Bechaigne.”
“Look at that, the heathen!”
“Sir, it is the custom. The Palace bailiff is bound to deliver over the malefactor, sentence having been pronounced, for execution, if it be one of the laity, to the provost of Paris; if it be a scholar, to the judges of the Bishop’s Court.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“Oh, Heavens!” said Fleur-de-Lys, “the poor creature!”
The thought of the unfortunate victim filled with sadness the glance which she cast upon the crowd. The captain, far more absorbed in her than in that collection of rabble, amorously fingered her girdle from behind. She turned with the smiling entreaty,— “For pity’s sake, let me alone, Phoebus! If my mother returned, she would see your hand!”
At this instant the clock of Notre-Dame slowly struck twelve. A murmur of satisfaction burst from the crowd. The last vibration of the twelfth stroke had scarcely died away, when the sea of heads tossed like the waves on a windy day, and a vast shout rose from the street, the windows, and the roofs:— “There she is!”
Fleur-de-Lys covered her eyes with her hands that she might not see.
“My charmer,” said Ph?bus, “will you go in?”