Here the cavalcade seemed to pause, and a distant voice was heard, saying,— “This way, Master Tristan; the priest says that we shall find her at the Rat-Hole!” The tramp of horses began again.
The recluse sprang up with a despairing cry.
“Save yourself! save yourself, my child! I remember now! You are right; it is your death! Horror! Malediction! Save yourself!”
She thrust her head from the window, and rapidly withdrew it.
“Stay!” she said in a low, curt, and mournful tone, convulsively clasping the hand of the gipsy, who was more dead than alive. “Stay! do not breathe! There are soldiers everywhere. You cannot go; it is too light.”
Her eyes were dry and burning. She stood for a moment speechless; then she strode up and down the cell, pausing at intervals to tear out handfuls of her grey hair. Suddenly she said: “They are coming; I will speak to them. Hide yourself in this corner; they will not see you. I will tell them that you have escaped; that I let you go, by my faith!”
She laid her daughter—for she still held her in her arms—in a corner of the cell which was not visible from without. She made her crouch down, carefully arranged her so that neither hand nor foot protruded beyond the shadow, loosened her black hair, which she spread over her white gown to hide it, put before her her jug and paving-stone,—the only articles of furniture which she had,—imagining that they would conceal her; and when this was done, feeling calmer, she knelt and prayed. Day, which was but just breaking, still left many shadows in the Rat-Hole.
At that instant the voice of the priest—that infernal voice—passed very close to the cell, shouting,— “This way, Captain Ph?bus de Chateaupers!”
At that name, at that voice, Esmeralda, huddling in her corner, made a movement.
“Do not stir!” said Gudule.
She had hardly finished speaking when a riotous crowd of men, swords, and horses, halted outside the cell. The mother rose hastily, and placed herself before the window in such a way as to cut off all view of the room. She saw a numerous band of armed men, on foot and on horseback, drawn up in the Place de Grève. The officer in command sprang to the ground and came towards her.
“Old woman,” said this man, who had an atrocious face, “we are looking for a witch, that we may hang her. We were told that you had her.”
The poor mother assumed the most indifferent air that she could, and answered,— “I don’t know what you mean.”
The other replied, “Zounds! Then what was that frightened archdeacon talking about? Where is he?”
“Sir,” said a soldier, “he has disappeared.”
“Come, now, old hag,” resumed the commanding officer, “don’t lie! A witch was left in your care. What have you done with her?”
The recluse dared not deny everything, lest she should rouse suspicion, and answered in a surly but seemingly truthful tone,— “If you mean a tall girl who was thrust into my hands just now, I can only tell you that she bit me, and I let her go. There. Now leave me in peace.”
The officer pulled a wry face.
“Don’t lie to me, old scarecrow!” he replied. “I am Tristan l‘Hermite, and I am the friend of the king. Tristan l’Hermite, do you hear?” he added looking round the Place de Grève, “‘Tis a name familiar here.”
“You might be Satan l‘Hermite,” responded Gudule, whose hopes began to rise, “and I could tell you nothing more, and should be no more afraid of you.”
“Odds bodikins!” said Tristan, “here’s a vixen for you! Ah, so the witch girl escaped! And which way did she go?”
Gudule answered indifferently,—
“Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe.”
Tristan turned his head, and signed to his troop to prepare to resume their march. The recluse breathed more freely.
“Sir,” suddenly said an archer, “pray ask this old sorceress how the bars of her window came to be so twisted and broken.”
This question revived the miserable mother’s anguish. Still, she did not lose all presence of mind.
“They were always so,” she stammered.
“Nonsense!” rejoined the archer; “only yesterday they formed a beautiful black cross which inspired pious thoughts in all who looked upon it.”
Tristan cast a side-glance at the recluse.
“It seems to me that our friend looks embarrassed.”
The unfortunate woman felt that everything depended upon her putting a good face on the matter, and, with death in her soul, she began to laugh. Mothers have such courage.