'Djali，'resumed the girl，emboldened by her increasing success，'show us M re Jacques Charmolue，the King's Procurator in the Ecclesiastical Court，when he preaches.'
The goat sat up on its hind quarters and proceeded to bleat and wave its fore-feet in so comical a fashion that—excepting the bad French and worse Latin—it was Jacques Charmolue，gesture，accent，attitude，to the life.
The crowd applauded ecstatically.
'Sacrilege！profanation！'exclaimed the voice of the bald man once more.
The gipsy girl turned round again.'Ah，'said she，'it is that hateful man！'then，with a disdainful pout of her under lip，which seemed a familiar little grimace with her，she turned lightly on her heels and began collecting the contributions of the bystanders in her tambourine.
Grands blancs，petits blancs，targes，liards á l'aigle，every deion of small coin，were now showered upon her.Suddenly，just as she was passing Gringoire，he，in sheer absence of mind，thrust his hand into his pocket，so that the girl stopped in front of him.
'Diable！'exclaimed the poet，finding at the bottom of his pocket reality—in other words，nothing.And yet，here was this pretty girl，her great eyes fixed on him，holding out her tambourine expectantly.Gringoire broke out in a cold perspiration.If he had had all Peru in his pocket，he would most certainly have handed it to the dancing girl，but Gringoire did not possess Peru—and in any case America had not yet been discovered.
Fortunately an unexpected occurrence came to his relief.
'Get thee gone from here，locust of Egypt！'cried a harsh voice from the darkest corner of the Place.
The girl turned in alarm.This was not the voice of the bald man；it was the voice of a woman，one full of fanaticism and malice.However，the exclamation which startled the gipsy girl highly delighted a noisy band of children prowling about the Place.
''Tis the recluse of the Tour-Roland！'they cried with discordant shouts of laughter；''tis the sachette 2 scolding again.Has she not had any supper？Let's take her something from the public buffet！'and they rushed in a mass towards the Maison-aux-Piliers.
Meanwhile Gringoire had taken advantage of the dancing girl's perturbation to eclipse himself，and the children's mocking shouts reminded him that he too had had no supper.He hastened to the buffet，but the little rascals had been too quick for him，and by the time he arrived they had swept the board.There was not even a miserable piece of honey-bread at five sous the pound.Nothing was left against the wall but the slender fleur de lis and roses painted there in 1434 by Mathieu Biterne—in sooth，a poor kind of supper.
It is not exactly gay to have to go to bed supperless，but it is still less entertaining neither to have supped nor to know where you are going to get a bed.Yet this was Gringoire's plight—without a prospect of food or lodging.He found himself pressed on all sides by necessity，and he considered necessity extremely hard on him.He had long ago discovered this truth—that Jupiter created man during a fit of misanthropy，and throughout life the destiny of the wise man holds his philosophy in a state of siege.For his own part，Gringoire had never seen the blockade so complete.He heard his stomach sound a parley，and he thought it too bad that his evil fate should be enabled to take his philosophy by famine.
He was sinking deeper and deeper into this melancholy mood，when his attention was suddenly aroused by the sound of singing，most sweet but full of strange and fantastic modulations.It was the gipsy girl.
Her voice，like her dancing and her beauty，had some indefinable and charming quality—something pure and sonorous；something，so to speak，soaring，winged.Her singing was a ceaseless flow of melody，of unexpected cadences，of simple phrases dotted over with shrill and staccato notes，of liquid runs that would have taxed a nightingale，but in which the harmony was never lost，of soft octave undulations that rose and fell like the bosom of the fair singer.And all the while her beautiful face expressed with singular mobility all the varying emotions of her song，from the wildest inspiration to the most virginal dignity—one moment a maniac，the next a queen.
The words she sang were in a tongue unknown to Gringoire and apparently to herself，so little did the expression she put into her song fit the sense of the words.Thus，on her lips these four lines were full of sparkling gaiety：
'Un cofre de gran riqueza Halloran dentro un pilar；Dentro del，nuevas banderas Con figuras de espantar.'
And the next moment Gringoire's eyes filled with tears at the expression she put into this verse：
'Alarabes de cavallo Sin poderse menear，Con espadas，y a los cuellos Ballestas de buen echar.'
However，the prevailing note in her singing was joyousness，and，like the birds，she seemed to sing from pure serenity and lightness of heart.
The gipsy's song disturbed Gringoire's reverie，but only as a swan ruffles the water.He listened in a sort of trance，unconscious of all around him.It was the first moment for many hours that he forgot his woes.
The respite was short.The female voice which had interrupted the gipsy's dance now broke in upon her song：
'Silence，grasshopper of hell！'she cried out of the same dark corner of the Place.
The poor'cigale'stopped short.Gringoire clapped his hands to his ears.
'Oh！'he cried，'accursed，broken-toothed saw that comes to break the lyre！'
The rest of the audience agreed with him.'The foul fiend take the old sachette！'growled more than one of them，and the invisible spoil-sport might have had reason to repent of her attacks on the gipsy，if the attention of the crowd had not been distracted by the procession of the Pope of Fools，now pouring into the Place de Gréve，after making the tour of the streets with its blaze of torches and its deafening hubbub.
