Claude Frollo—for we presume the reader，more intelligent than P us，has seen throughout this adventure no other spectre-monk than the Archdeacon—Claude Frollo groped about him for some moments in the darksome hole into which the captain had thrust him.It was one of those corners which builders sometimes reserve in the angle between the roof and the supporting wall.The vertical section of this den，as P us had very aptly termed it，would have exhibited a triangle.It had no window of any description，and the slope of the roof prevented one standing upright in it.Claude，therefore，was forced to crouch in the dust and the plaster that cracked under him.His head was burning.Groping about him on the floor，he found a piece of broken glass which he pressed to his forehead，and so found some slight relief from its coldness.
What was passing at that moment in the dark soul of the Archdeacon？God and himself alone knew.
According to what fatal order was he disposing in his thoughts La Esmeralda，P us，Jacques Charmolue，his fondly loved young brother，abandoned by him in the gutter，his cloth，his reputation perhaps，dragged thus into the house of the notorious old procuress—all these images—these wild doings？I cannot say；but it is very certain that they formed a horrible group in his mind's eye.
He had been waiting a quarter of an hour，and he felt that he had aged a century in that time.Suddenly he heard the wooden ladder creak.Some one was ascending it.The trap-door opened again，and once more the light made its appearance.In the worm-eaten door of his retreat there was a crack；to this he pressed his face and could thus see all that went on in the adjoining space.The old cat-faced hag came first through the trap-door，lamp in hand；then followed P us，twirling his mustaches；and lastly a third person，a beautiful and graceful figure—La Esmeralda.To the priest she issued from below like a dazzling apparition.Claude shook，a mist spread before his eyes，his pulses throbbed violently，everything turned round him，there was a roaring in his ears；he saw and heard no more.
When he came to himself again，P us and Esmeralda were alone，seated upon the wooden chest beside the lamp，the light of which revealed to the Archdeacon the two youthful figures and a miserable pallet at the back of the attic.
Close to the couch was a window，the casement of which，cracked and bulging like a spider's web in the rain，showed through its broken strands a small patch of sky，and far down it the moon reclining on a pillow of soft clouds.
The girl was blushing，panting，confused.Her long，drooping lashes shaded her glowing cheeks.The officer，to whom she dared not lift her eyes，was radiant.Mechanically，and with a ravishing coy air，she was tracing incoherent lines on the bench with the tip of her finger，her eyes following the movement.Her foot was hidden，for the little goat was lying on it.
The captain was arrayed for conquest，with ruffles of gold lace at his throat and wrists—the extreme of elegance in those days.
It was not without difficulty that Dom Claude could hear their conversation，so loudly did the blood beat in his ears.
A dull affair enough，the conversation of a pair of lovers—one never-ending'I love you'；a musical phrase，but terribly monotonous and insipid to the indifferent listener.But Claude was no indifferent listener.
'Oh，'said the girl，without lifting her eyes，'do not despise me，Monseigneur P us.I feel that I am doing very wrong！'
'Despise you，pretty one！'returned the officer with an air of superior and princely gallantry，'despise you，Tête-Dieu，and what for？'
'For having followed you.'
'On that score，my charmer，we do not at all agree.I ought not to despise，but to hate you.'
The girl looked up at him frightened.'Hate me！What have I done？'
'Why，you have taken so much soliciting.'
'Alas！'said she，'it is that I am breaking a vow—I shall never find my parents—the amulet will lose its virtue—but what of that？—what need have I of a father or mother now？'And she fixed on the soldier her large dark eyes，dewy with tenderness and delight.
'The devil fly away with me if I know what you mean！'cried P us.
Esmeralda was silent for a moment，then a tear rose to her eyes，and a sigh to her lips，as she murmured，'Oh，sir，I love you！'
There was around the girl such a halo of chastity，such a perfume of virtue，that P us was not quite at his ease with her.These words，however，emboldened him.'You love me！'he exclaimed with transport，and threw his arm round the gipsy's waist.He had only been on the lookout for an opportunity.
The priest beheld this，and tried with his finger-tip the edge of the dagger which he kept concealed in his bosom.
'P us，'the gipsy went on，at the same time gently disengaging her waist from the officer's clinging hands，'you are good，you are generous，you are handsome.You saved me—me，who am but a poor wandering gipsy girl.I had long dreamed of an officer who should save my life.It was of you I dreamed before I met you，my P us.The officer of my dream wore a fine uniform like yours，a grand look，a sword.You are called P us；it is a beautiful name.I love your name；I love your sword.Draw your sword，P us，and let me look at it.'
'Child！'said the captain，unsheathing his sword with an indulgent smile.
The Egyptian looked at the hilt，at the blade，examined with adorable curiosity the monogram on the guard，and then kissed the sword.'You are the sword of a brave man，'she said.'I love my officer.'
Here P us availed himself of the opportunity，as she bent over the sword，to press a kiss upon her fair neck，which made the girl flush crimson and draw herself up，while the priest ground his teeth in the darkness.
'P us，'the gipsy resumed，'let me talk to you.But first，pray you，walk about a little that I may see you at your full height，and hear the ring of your spurs.How handsome you are！'
