Gringoire bit his lip.'It seems，'said he，'that I am not quite so triumphant in Cupido as I imagined.But in that case，why have broken the poor pitcher？'
All this time Esmeralda's dagger and the goat's horns continued on the defensive.
'Mademoiselle Esmeralda，'said the poet，'let us come to terms.As I am not the recorder at the Chatelet I shall not make difficulties about your carrying a dagger thus in Paris，in the teeth of the ordinances and prohibitions of Monsieur the Provost，though you must be aware that Noel Lescrivain was condemned only last week to pay ten sols parisis for carrying a cutlass.However，that is no affair of mine，and I will come to the point.I swear to you by my hope of salvation that I will not approach you without your consent and permission；but，I implore you，give me some supper.'
Truth to tell，Gringoire，like M.Depréaux，was'but little inclined to sensuality.'He had none of those swashbuckler and conquering ways that take girls by storm.In love，as in all other matters，he willingly resigned himself to temporizing and a middle course，and a good supper in charming tête-á-tête，especially when he was hungry，appeared to him an admirable interlude between the prologue and the dénouement of an amatory adventure.
The gipsy made no reply.She pouted her lips disdainfully，tossed her little head like a bird，then burst into a peal of laughter，and the dainty little weapon vanished as it had appeared，without Gringoire being able to observe where the wasp concealed its sting.
A minute afterward there appeared upon the table a loaf of bread，a slice of bacon，some wrinkled apples，and a mug of beer.Gringoire fell to ravenously.To hear the furious clatter of his fork on the earthenware platter you would have concluded that all his love had turned to hunger.
Seated opposite to him，the girl let him proceed in silence，being visibly preoccupied with some other thought，at which she smiled from time to time，while her gentle hand absently caressed the intelligent head of the goat pressed gently against her knee.A candle of yellow wax lit up this scene of voracity and musing.Presently，the first gnawings of his stomach being satisfied，Gringoire had a pang of remorse at seeing that nothing remained of the feast but one apple.'You are not eating，Mademoiselle Esmeralda？'
She replied with a shake of the head，and fixed her pensive gaze on the arched roof of the chamber.
'Now，what in the world is she absorbed in？'thought Gringoire as he followed her gaze：'it can't possibly be that grinning dwarf's face carved in the keystone of the vaulting.Que diable！I can well stand the comparison！'
He raised his voice：'Mademoiselle！'
She seemed not to hear him.
He tried again still louder：'Mademoiselle Esmeralda！'
Labour lost.The girl's mind was elsewhere and Gringoire's voice had not the power to call it back.Fortunately，the goat struck in and began pulling its mistress gently by the sleeve.
'What is it，Djali？'said the gipsy quickly，as if starting out of a dream.
'It is hungry，'said Gringoire，delighted at any opening for a conversation.
Esmeralda began crumbling some bread，which Djali ate daintily out of the hollow of her hand.
Gringoire gave her no time to resume her musings.He hazarded a delicate question.
'So you will not have me for your husband？'
The girl looked at him steadily.'No，'she said.
'Nor for your lover？'
She thrust out her under lip and answered'No.'
'For a friend，then？'continued Gringoire.
She regarded him fixedly，then after a moment's reflection，'Perhaps，'she replied.
This perhaps，so dear to the philosopher，encouraged Gringoire.'Do you know what friendship is？'he asked.
'Yes，'returned the gipsy.'It is to be like brother and sister；two souls that touch without mingling；two fingers of the same hand.'
'And love？'proceeded Gringoire.
'Oh，love，'she said，and her voice vibrated and her eyes shone，'that is to be two and yet only one—a man and a woman blending into an angel—it is heaven！'
As she spoke，the dancing girl of the streets glowed with a beauty which affected Gringoire strangely，and which seemed to him in perfect harmony with the almost Oriental exaltation of her words.Her chaste and rosy lips were parted in a half smile，her pure and open brow was ruffled for a moment by her thoughts，as a mirror is dimmed by a passing breath，and from under her long，dark，drooping lashes there beamed a sort of ineffable light，imparting to her face that ideal suavity which later on Raphael found at the mystic point of intersection of the virginal，the human，and the divine.
Nevertheless，Gringoire continued：'What must a man be，then，to win your favour？'
'He must be a man！'
'And I，'said he；'what am I，then？'
'A man goes helmet on head，sword in hand，and gilt spurs on heel.'
'Good，'said Gringoire，'the horse makes the man.Do you love any one？'
'As a lover？'
'As a lover.'
She paused thoughtfully for a moment，then she said with a peculiar expression，'I shall know that soon.'
'And why not to-night？'rejoined the poet in tender accents；'why not me？'
She gave him a cold，grave look.'I could never love a man unless he could protect me.'
Gringoire reddened and accepted the rebuke.The girl evidently alluded to the feeble assistance he had rendered her in the critical situation of a couple of hours before.This recollection，effaced by the subsequent adventures of the evening，now returned to him.He smote his forehead.
'That reminds me，mademoiselle，I ought to have begun by that.Pardon my foolish distraction.How did you manage to escape out of the clutches of Quasimodo？'
The gipsy shuddered.'Oh，the horrible hunchback！'she exclaimed，hiding her face in her hands，and shivering as if overcome by violent cold.
'Horrible indeed，'agreed Gringoire；'but how，'he persisted，'did you get away from him？'
Esmeralda smiled，heaved a little sigh，and held her peace.
'Do you know why he followed you？'asked Gringoire，trying to come at the information he sought by another way.
