And this thought tinged with sadness the look she cast over the crowd.The captain，much more interested in her than in this dirty rabble，had laid an amorous hand upon her waist.She turned round with a smile half of pleasure，half of entreaty.
'Prithee，P us，let be！If my mother entered and saw your hand—'
At this moment the hour of noon boomed slowly from the great clock of Notre-Dame.A murmur of satisfaction burst from the crowd.The last vibration of the twelfth stroke had hardly died away before all the heads were set in one direction，like waves before a sudden gust of wind，and a great shout went up from the square，the windows，the roofs：'Here she comes！'
Fleur-de-Lys clasped her hands over her eyes that she might not see.
'Sweetheart，'P us hastened to say，'shall we go in？'
'No，'she returned，and the eyes that she had just closed from fear she opened again from curiosity.
A tumbrel drawn by a strong Normandy draught-horse，and closely surrounded by horsemen in violet livery with white crosses，had just entered the Place from the Rue Saint-Pierre aux Bufs.The sergeants of the watch opened a way for it through the people by vigorous use of their thonged scourges.Beside the tumbrel rode a few officers of justice and the police，distinguishable by their black garments and their awkwardness in the saddle.M re Jacques Charmolue figured at their head.
In the fatal cart a girl was seated，her hands tied behind her，but no priest by her side.She was in her shift，and her long black hair（it was the custom then not to cut it till reaching the foot of the gibbet）fell unbound about her neck and over her half-naked shoulders.
Through these waving locks—more lustrous than the raven's wing—you caught a glimpse of a great rough brown rope，writhing and twisting，chafing the girl's delicate shoulder-blades，and coiled about her fragile neck like an earthworm round a flower.Below this rope glittered a small amulet adorned with green glass，which，doubtless，she had been allowed to retain，because nothing is refused to those about to die.The spectators raised above her at the windows could see her bare legs as she sat in the tumbrel，and which she strove to conceal as if from a last remaining instinct of her sex.At her feet lay a little goat，also strictly bound.The criminal was holding her ill-fastened shift together with her teeth.It looked as though，despite her extreme misery，she was still conscious of the indignity of being thus exposed half-naked before all eyes.Alas！it is not for such frightful trials as this that feminine modesty was made.
'Holy Saviour！'cried Fleur-de-Lys excitedly to the captain.'Look，cousin！if it is not your vile gipsy girl with the goat！'
She turned round to P us.His eyes were fixed on the tumbrel.He was very pale.
'What gipsy girl with a goat？'he faltered.
'How，'returned Fleur-de-Lys，'do you not remember？'
P us did not let her finish.'I do not know what you mean.'
He made one step to re-enter the room，but Fleur-de-Lys，whose jealousy lately so vehement was now reawakened by the sight of the detested gipsy—Fleur-de-Lys stopped him by a glance full of penetration and mistrust.She recollected vaguely having heard something of an officer whose name had been connected with the trial of this sorceress.
'What ails you？'said she to P us；'one would think that the sight of this woman disconcerted you.'
P us forced a laugh.'Me？Not the least in the world！Oh，far from it！'
'Then stay，'she returned imperiously，'and let us see it out.'
So there was nothing for the unlucky captain but to remain.However，it reassured him somewhat to see that the criminal kept her eyes fixed on the bottom of the tumbrel.It was but too truly Esmeralda.In this last stage of ignominy and misfortune，she was still beautiful—her great dark eyes looked larger from the hollowing of her cheeks，her pale profile was pure and unearthly.She resembled her former self as a Virgin of Masaccio resembles one of Raphael's—frailer，more pinched，more attenuated.
For the rest，there was nothing in her whole being that did not seem to be shaken to its foundations；and，except for her last poor attempt at modesty，she abandoned herself completely to chance，so thoroughly had her spirit been broken by torture and despair.Her body swayed with every jolt of the tumbrel like something dead or disjointed.Her gaze was blank and distraught.A tear hung in her eye，but it was stationary and as if frozen there.
Meanwhile the dismal cavalcade had traversed the crowd amid yells of joy and the struggles of the curious.Nevertheless，in strict justice be it said，that on seeing her so beautiful and so crushed by affliction，many，even the most hard-hearted，were moved to pity.
The tumbrel now entered the Parvis and stopped in front of the great door.The escort drew up in line on either side.Silence fell upon the crowd，and amid that silence，surcharged with solemnity and anxious anticipation，the two halves of the great door opened apparently of themselves on their creaking hinges and disclosed the shadowy depths of the sombre church in its whole extent，hung with black，dimly lighted by a few tapers glimmering in the far distance on the high altar，and looking like a black and yawning cavern in the midst of the sunlit Place.At the far end，in the gloom of the chancel，a gigantic cross of silver was dimly visible against a black drapery that fell from the roof to the floor.The nave was perfectly empty，but the heads of a few priests could be seen stirring vaguely in the distant choir-stalls，and as the great door opened，there rolled from the church a solemn，far-reaching，monotonous chant，hurling at the devoted head of the criminal fragments of the penitential psalms：
'Non timebo millia populi circumdantis me.Exsurge，Domine；salvum me fac，Deus！
'Salvum me fac，Deus，quoniam intraverunt aq sque ad animam meam.
'Infixus sum in limo profundi；et non est substantia.'