The archdeacon followed them, gloomy and haggard.
Was this the Phoebus whose accursed name had been mingled with all his thoughts ever since his interview with Gringoire? He did not know it, but it was at least a Phoebus, and that magic name sufficed to make the archdeacon follow the two heedless comrades with the stealthy tread of a wolf, listening to their words and observing their slightest gestures with anxious attention.
Moreover, nothing was easier than to hear everything they said, as they talked loudly, not in the least concerned that the passers-by were taken into their confidence.
They talked of duels, wenches, wine pots, and folly.
At the turning of a street, the sound of a tambourine reached them from a neighboring square.
Dom Claude heard the officer say to the scholar,—
“Thunder!
Let us hasten our steps!”
“Why, Phoebus?”
“I’m afraid lest the Bohemian should see me.”
“What Bohemian?”
“The little girl with the goat.”
“La Smeralda?”
“That’s it, Jehan.
I always forget her devil of a name. Let us make haste, she will recognize me.
I don’t want to have that girl accost me in the street.”
“Do you know her, Phoebus?”
Here the archdeacon saw Phoebus sneer, bend down to Jehan’s ear, and say a few words to him in a low voice; then Phoebus burst into a laugh, and shook his head with a triumphant air.
“Truly?” said Jehan.
“Upon my soul!” said Phoebus.
“This evening?”
“This evening.”
“Are you sure that she will come?”
“Are you a fool, Jehan?
Does one doubt such things?”
“Captain Phoebus, you are a happy gendarme!”
The archdeacon heard the whole of this conversation. His teeth chattered; a visible shiver ran through his whole body. He halted for a moment, leaned against a post like a drunken man, then followed the two merry knaves. At the moment when he overtook them once more, they had changed their conversation.
He heard them singing at the top of their lungs the ancient refrain,—
Les enfants des Petits-Carreaux Se font pendre cornme des veaux.
CHAPTER VII. THE MYSTERIOUS MONK.
The illustrious wine shop of
“Eve’s Apple” was situated in the University, at the corner of the Rue de la Rondelle and the Rue de la Batonnier.
It was a very spacious and very low hail on the ground floor, with a vaulted ceiling whose central spring rested upon a huge pillar of wood painted yellow; tables everywhere, shining pewter jugs hanging on the walls, always a large number of drinkers, a plenty of wenches, a window on the street, a vine at the door, and over the door a flaring piece of sheet-iron, painted with an apple and a woman, rusted by the rain and turning with the wind on an iron pin. This species of weather-vane which looked upon the pavement was the signboard.
Night was falling; the square was dark; the wine-shop, full of candles, flamed afar like a forge in the gloom; the noise of glasses and feasting, of oaths and quarrels, which escaped through the broken panes, was audible. Through the mist which the warmth of the room spread over the window in front, a hundred confused figures could be seen swarming, and from time to time a burst of noisy laughter broke forth from it. The passers-by who were going about their business, slipped past this tumultuous window without glancing at it.
Only at intervals did some little ragged boy raise himself on tiptoe as far as the ledge, and hurl into the drinking-shop, that ancient, jeering hoot, with which drunken men were then pursued:
“Aux Houls, saouls, saouls, saouls!”
Nevertheless, one man paced imperturbably back and forth in front of the tavern, gazing at it incessantly, and going no further from it than a pikernan from his sentry-box.
He was enveloped in a mantle to his very nose.
This mantle he had just purchased of the old-clothes man, in the vicinity of the
“Eve’s Apple,” no doubt to protect himself from the cold of the March evening, possibly also, to conceal his costume.
From time to time he paused in front of the dim window with its leaden lattice, listened, looked, and stamped his foot.
At length the door of the dram-shop opened.
This was what he appeared to be waiting for.
Two boon companions came forth.
The ray of light which escaped from the door crimsoned for a moment their jovial faces.
The man in the mantle went and stationed himself on the watch under a porch on the other side of the street.
“Corne et tonnerre!” said one of the comrades. “Seven o’clock is on the point of striking.
‘Tis the hour of my appointed meeting.”
“I tell you,” repeated his companion, with a thick tongue, “that I don’t live in the Rue des Mauvaises Paroles, indignus qui inter mala verba habitat.
I have a lodging in the Rue Jean-Pain-Mollet, in vico Johannis Pain-Mollet.