'A gross occupation for a philosopher.'
''Tis always a form of equilibrium，'returned Gringoire.'When one takes up an idea，one finds something of it everywhere.'
'I know it，'answered the Archdeacon.Then after a pause he went on：'Nevertheless，you are very poor？'
'Poor，yes；unhappy，no.'
There was a clatter of horses'hoofs，and the two friends saw a company of the King's archers file past the end of the street，their lances high and an officer at their head.The cavalcade was brilliant，and the street echoed to their tread.
'How you look at that officer！'said Gringoire to the Archdeacon.
'It is because I seem to know him.'
'What is his name？'
'I think，'answered Claude，'it is P us de Chateaupers.'
'P us！a curious name that！There is a Count of Foix called P us.I remember that a girl I once knew never swore by any other name.'
'Come away，'said the priest，'I have something to say to you.'
A certain degree of agitation was perceptible under the Archdeacon's glacial manner since the passing of the troop of soldiers.He started off walking，Gringoire following，accustomed to obey like all who once came under the influence of that dominating personality.They proceeded in silence till they reached the Rue des Bernardins，which was well–nigh deserted.Here Dom Claude came to a standstill.
'What have you to say to me，master？'asked Gringoire.
'Do you not consider，'answered the Archdeacon with an air of profound reflection，'that the attire of those cavaliers is handsomer than yours or mine？'
Gringoire shook his head.'Faith，I prefer my red and yellow cloak to those iron and steel scales.Where's the pleasure of making a noise when you walk like the Iron Wharf in an earthquake？'
'Then，Gringoire，you have never envied those fine fellows in their coats of mail？'
'Envied them for what，Monsieur the Archdeacon？Their strength，their arms，their discipline？Nay，give me philosophy and independence in rags.I'd rather be the head of a fly than the tail of a lion.'
'How singular！'mused the priest.'A fine uniform is，nevertheless，a fine thing in its way.'
Gringoire seeing him immersed in thought，strolled away to admire the porch of a neighbouring house.He returned clapping his hands.
'If you were less occupied with the fine habiliments of these warriors，Monsieur the Archdeacon，I would beg you to come and see this door.I have always declared that the house of the Sieur Aubry boasts the most superb entrance in the world！'
'Pierre Gringoire，'said the Archdeacon，'what have you done with the little gipsy dancing girl？'
'Esmeralda，you mean？You have very abrupt changes of conversation.'
'Was she not your wife？'
'Yes，by grace of a broken pitcher.It was a four years'agreement.By–the–bye，'Gringoire went on in a half bantering tone，'you still think of her，then？'
'And you—you think of her no longer？'
'Not much—I have so many other things.Lord，how pretty the little goat was！'
'Did not that Bohemian girl save your life？'
'Pardieu—that's true！'
'Well，then，what has become of he hat have you done with her？'
'I cannot tell you.I believe they hanged her.'
'You believe？'
'I am not sure.As soon as I saw there was any question of hanging I kept out of the game.'
'And that is all you know about her？'
'Stay；I was told that she had taken refuge in Notre-Dame，and that she was in safety，and I'm sure I'm delighted；but I was not able to discover whether the goat had escaped with her—and that is all I know about it.'
'Then I am going to tell you more，'cried Dom Claude；and his voice，till then low，deliberate，and hollow，rose to thunder.'She did find sanctuary in Notre-Dame，but in three days hence the law will drag her out again，and she will be hanged at the Grève.There is a decree of Parliament.'
'How very disappointing，'said Gringoire.In an instant the priest had resumed his cold，grave demeanour.
'And who the devil，'continued the poet，'has taken the trouble to solicit a decree of reintegration？Why couldn't they leave the Parliament alone？What harm can it do to any one for a poor girl to take shelter under the buttresses of Notre-Dame among the swallows'nests？'
'There are Satans in the world，'replied the Archdeacon gloomily.
'Well，'tis a devilish bad piece of work，'observed Gringoire.
'So she saved your life？'the priest went on after a pause.
'Yes，among my good friends the vagabonds.A touch more，a shade less，and I should have been hanged.They would have been sorry for it now.'
'Will you then do nothing for her？'
'I ask nothing better，Dom Claude；but what if I bring an ugly bit of business about my ears？'
'What does it matter？'
'Matter indeed？You are very good，my dear master！I have two great works just begun.'
The priest smote his forehead.Despite the calm he affected，a violent gesture from time to time betrayed his inward struggles.'How is she to be saved？'
'Master，'said Gringoire，'I can give you an answer；‘Il padelt，'which is the Turkish for‘God is our hope.''
'How is she to be saved？'repeated Dom Claude，deep in thought.
It was Gringoire's turn to smite his forehead.'Hark you，master，I have imagination.I will find you a choice of expedients.What if we entreated the King's mercy？'
'Merc rom Louis XI？'
'Why not？'
'Go ask the tiger for his bone！'
Gringoire racked his brain for fresh solutions.
'Well，then—stay：how would it be to draw up a memorial from the midwives of the city declaring the girl to be pregnant？'
The priest's sunken eyes glared savagely.'Pregnant？Rascal，knowest thou anything of such a matter？'
Gringoire recoiled in alarm at his manner.He hastened to say，'Oh，not I indeed！Our marriage was a regular foris maritagium.I am altogether outside of it.But at any rate，that would secure a respite.'
'Folly！Infamy！Hold thy peace！'
'You are wrong to be angry，'said Gringoire reproachfully.'We get a respite which does harm to nobody，and puts forty deniers parisis into the pockets of the midwives，who are poor women.'