He is the procurator of Dame Tax and Monsieur Gibbet.
The great are despoiled of their dignities， and the little incessantly overwhelmed with fresh oppressions. He is an exorbitant prince. I love not this monarch. And you， master？"The man in black let the garrulous poet chatter on. He continued to struggle against the violent and narrow current， which separates the prow of the City and the stem of the island of Notre-Dame， which we call to-day the Isle St. Louis.
"By the way， master！" continued Gringoire suddenly.
"At the moment when we arrived on the Parvis， through the enraged outcasts， did your reverence observe that poor little devil whose skull your deaf man was just cracking on the railing of the gallery of the kings？ I am near sighted and Icould not recognize him. Do you know who he could be？"The stranger answered not a word. But he suddenly ceased rowing， his arms fell as though broken， his head sank on his breast， and la Esmeralda heard him sigh convulsively. She shuddered. She had heard such sighs before.
The boat， abandoned to itself， floated for several minutes with the stream. But the man in black finally recovered himself， seized the oars once more and began to row against the current. He doubled the point of the Isle of Notre Dame， and made for the landing-place of the Port an Foin.
"Ah！" said Gringoire， "yonder is the Barbeau mansion.--Stay， master， look： that group of black roofs which make such singular angles yonder， above that heap of black， fibrous grimy， dirty clouds， where the moon is completely crushed and spread out like the yolk of an egg whose shell is broken.--'Tis a fine mansion. There is a chapel crowned with a small vault full of very well carved enrichments. Above， you can see the bell tower， very delicately pierced. There is also a pleasant garden， which consists of a pond， an aviary， an echo， a mall， a labyrinth， a house for wild beasts， and a quantity of leafy alleys very agreeable to Venus. There is also a rascal of a tree which is called 'the lewd，' because it favored the pleasures of a famous princess and a constable of France， who was a gallant and a wit.--Alas！ we poor philosophers are to a constable as a plot of cabbages or a radish bed to the garden of the Louvre. What matters it， after all？ human life， for the great as well as for us， is a mixture of good and evil. Pain is always by the side of joy， the spondee by the dactyl.--Master， I must relate to you the history of the Barbeau mansion. It ends in tragic fashion. It was in 1319， in the reign of Philippe V.， the longest reign of the kings of France. The moral of the story is that the temptations of the flesh are pernicious and malignant. Let us not rest our glance too long on our neighbor's wife， however gratified our senses may be by her beauty. Fornication is a very libertine thought.
Adultery is a prying into the pleasures of others--Ohé！ the noise yonder is redoubling！"The tumult around Notre-Dame was， in fact， increasing.
They listened. Cries of victory were heard with tolerable distinctness. All at once， a hundred torches， the light of which glittered upon the helmets of men at arms， spread over the church at all heights， on the towers， on the galleries， on the flying buttresses. These torches seemed to be in search of something； and soon distant clamors reached the fugitives distinctly ：--"The gypsy！ the sorceress！ death to the gypsy！"The unhappy girl dropped her head upon her hands， and the unknown began to row furiously towards the shore.
Meanwhile our philosopher reflected. He clasped the goat in his arms， and gently drew away from the gypsy， who pressed closer and closer to him， as though to the only asylum which remained to her.
It is certain that Gringoire was enduring cruel perplexity.
He was thinking that the goat also， "according to existing law，" would be hung if recaptured； which would be a great pity， poor Djali！ that he had thus two condemned creatures attached to him； that his companion asked no better than to take charge of the gypsy. A violent combat began between his thoughts， in which， like the Jupiter of the Iliad， he weighed in turn the gypsy and the goat； and he looked at them alternately with eyes moist with tears， saying between his teeth：
"But I cannot save you both！"
A shock informed them that the boat had reached the land at last. The uproar still filled the city. The unknown rose， approached the gypsy， and endeavored to take her arm to assist her to alight. She repulsed him and clung to the sleeve of Gringoire， who， in his turn， absorbed in the goat， almost repulsed her. Then she sprang alone from the boat. She was so troubled that she did not know what she did or whither she was going. Thus she remained for a moment， stunned， watching the water flow past； when she gradually returned to her senses， she found herself alone on the wharf with the unknown. It appears that Gringoire had taken advantage of the moment of debarcation to slip away with the goat into the block of houses of the Rue Grenier-sur-l'Eau.
The poor gypsy shivered when she beheld herself alone with this man. She tried to speak， to cry out， to call Gringoire； her tongue was dumb in her mouth， and no sound left her lips. All at once she felt the stranger's hand on hers.
It was a strong， cold hand. Her teeth chattered， she turned paler than the ray of moonlight which illuminated her. The man spoke not a word. He began to ascend towards the Place de Grève， holding her by the hand.
At that moment， she had a vague feeling that destiny is an irresistible force. She had no more resistance left in her， she allowed herself to be dragged along， running while he walked. At this spot the quay ascended. But it seemed to her as though she were descending a slope.
She gazed about her on all sides. Not a single passer-by.
