Fleur-de-Lys ran up and trembled. The letters arranged upon the floor formed this word,—
PHŒBUS.
"Was it the goat who wrote that?" she inquired in a changed voice.
"Yes, godmother," replied Bérangère.
It was impossible to doubt it; the child did not know how to write.
"This is the secret!" thought Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, at the child's exclamation, all had hastened up, the mother, the young girls, the gypsy, and the officer.
The gypsy beheld the piece of folly which the goat had committed. She turned red, then pale, and began to tremble like a culprit before the captain, who gazed at her with a smile of satisfaction and amazement.
"Phœbus!" whispered the young girls, stupefied: "'tis the captain's name!"
"You have a marvellous memory!" said Fleur-de-Lys, to the petrified gipsy. Then, bursting into sobs:—"Oh!" she stammered mournfully, hiding her face in both her beautiful hands, "she is a magician!" And she heard another and a still more bitter voice at the bottom of her heart, saying,—"She is a rival!"
She fell fainting.
"My daughter! my daughter!" cried the terrified mother. "Begone, you gypsy of hell!"
In a twinkling, La Esmeralda gathered up the unlucky letters, made a sign to Djali, and went out through one door, while Fleur-de-Lys was being carried out through the other.
Captain Phœbus, on being left alone, hesitated for a moment between the two doors, then he followed the gypsy.
