"Are you sure," persisted Claude, with his penetrating glance, "that it is only a word and not a name?"
"The name of whom?" said the poet.
"How should I know?" said the priest.
"This is what I imagine, messire. These Bohemians are something like Guebrs, and adore the sun. Hence, Phœbus."
"That does not seem so clear to me as to you, Master Pierre."
"After all, that does not concern me. Let her mumble her Phœbus at her pleasure. One thing is certain, that Djali loves me almost as much as he does her."
"Who is Djali?"
"The goat."
The archdeacon dropped his chin into his hand, and appeared to reflect for a moment. All at once he turned abruptly to Gringoire once more.
"And do you swear to me that you have not touched her?"
"Whom?" said Gringoire; "the goat?"
"No, that woman."
"My wife? I swear to you that I have not."
"You are often alone with her?"
"A good hour every evening."
Dom Claude frowned.
"Oh! oh! Solus cum sola non cogltabuntur orare Pater Noster."
"Upon my soul, I could say the Pater, and the Ave Maria, and the Credo in Deum patrem omnipotentem without her paying any more attention to me than a chicken to a church."
"Swear to me, by the body of your mother," repeated the archdeacon violently, "that you have not touched that creature with even the tip of your finger."
"I will also swear it by the head of my father, for the two things have more affinity between them. But, my reverend master, permit me a question in my turn."
"Speak, sir."
"What concern is it of yours?"
The archdeacon's pale face became as crimson as the cheek
