'Are you sure，'rejoined Claude，with his searching look，'that it is only a word—that it is 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 of Guebers，and worship the sun：hence this P us.'
'That does not seem so evident to me as it does to you，Mre Pierre.'
'After all，it's no matter to me.Let her mumble her P us to her heart's content.What I know for certain is that Djali loves me already almost as much as her mistress.'
'Who is Djali？'
'That is the goat.'
The Archdeacon leant his chin on his hand and seemed to reflect for a moment.Suddenly he turned brusquely to Gringoire：
'And you swear to me that you have not touched her？'
'Whom？'asked Gringoire；'the goat？'
'No，this woman.'
'My wife？I swear I have not.'
'And yet you are often alone with her.'
'Every night for a full hour.'
Dom Claude frowned.'Oh！oh！Solus cum sola non cogitabuntur orare Pater Noster.'1
'By my soul，I might say Paters and Ave Marias and the Credo without her paying any more attention to me than a hen to a church.'
'Swear to me，by thy mother's body，'said the Archdeacon vehemently，'that thou hast not so much as touched that woman with the tip of thy finger.'
'I will swear it too by my father's head，for the two things have more than one connection.But，reverend master，permit me one question in return.'
'Speak，sir.'
'What does that signify to you？'
The Archdeacon's pale face flushed like the cheek of a young girl.He was silent for a moment，and then replied with visible embarrassment：
'Hark you，M re Pierre Gringoire.You are not yet damned，as far as I know.I am interested in you，and wish you well.Now，the slightest contact with that demon of a gipsy girl will infallibly make you a servant of Satanas.You know'tis always the body that ruins the soul.Woe betide you if you come nigh that woman！I have spoken.'
'I did try it once，'said Gringoire，scratching his ear.'That was on the first day，but I only got stung for my pains.'
'You had that temerity，M re Gringoire？'and the priest's brow darkened again.
'Another time，'continued the poet，with a grin，'before I went to bed，I looked through her key-hole，and beheld the most delicious damsel in her shift that ever made a bedstead creak under her naked foot.'
'To the foul fiend with thee！'cried the priest，with a look of fury；and thrusting the amazed Gringoire from him by the shoulder，he plunged with long strides into the impenetrable gloom of the Cathedral arches.
1 A man and a woman alone together will not think of saying Pater Nosters.
Chapter 3-The Bells
Since his taste of the pillory，the neighbours in the vicinity of Notre-Dame thought they perceived a remarkable abatement in Quasimodo's rage for bell-ringing.Before that time the smallest excuse set the bells going—long morning chimes that lasted from prime to compline；full peals for a high mass，full-toned runs flashing up and down the smaller bells for a wedding or a christening，and filling the air with an exquisite network of sweet sound.The ancient minster，resonant and vibrating to her foundations，lived in a perpetual jubilant tumult of bells.Some self-willed spirit of sound seemed to have entered into her and to be sending forth a never-ending song from all those brazen throats.And now that spirit had departed.The Cathedral seemed wilfully to maintain a sullen silence.Festivals and burials had their simple accompaniment，plain and meagre—what the Church demanded—not a note beyond.Of the two voices that proceed from a church—that of the organ within and the bells without—only the organ remained.It seemed as though there were no longer any musicians in the belfries.Nevertheless，Quasimodo was still there；what had come over him？Was it that the shame and despair of the pillory still lingered in his heart，that his soul still quivered under the lash of the torturer，that his horror of such treatment had swallowed up all other feeling in him，even his passion for the bells？—or was it rather that Marie had a rival in the heart of the bell-ringer of Notre-Dame，and that the great bell and her fourteen sisters were being neglected for something more beautiful？
It happened that in this year of grace 1482，the Feast of the Annunciation fell on Tuesday，the 25th of March.On that day the air was so pure and light that Quasimodo felt some return of affection for his bells.He accordingly ascended the northern tower，while the beadle below threw wide the great doors of the church，which consisted，at that time，of enormous panels of strong wood，padded with leather，bordered with gilded iron nails，and framed in carving'very skilfully wrought.'
Arrived in the lofty cage of the bells，Quasimodo gazed for some time with a sorrowful shake of the head at his six singing birds，as if he mourned over something alien that had come between him and his old loves.But when he had set them going，when he felt the whole cluster of bells move under his hands，when he saw—for he could not hear it—the palpitating octave ascending and descending in that enormous diapason，like a bird fluttering from bough to bough—when the demon of music，with his dazzling shower of stretti，trills，and arpeggios，had taken possession of the poor deaf creature，then he became happy once more，he forgot his former woes，and as the weight lifted from his heart his face lit up with joy.
To and fro he hurried，clapped his hands，ran from one rope to the other，spurring on his six singers with mouth and hands，like the conductor of an orchestra urging highly trained musicians.
