THE INCONVENIENCES OF FOLLOWING A PRETTY WOMANTHROUGH THE STREETS IN THE EVENING.
Gringoire set out to follow the gypsy at all hazards. He had seen her， accompanied by her goat， take to the Rue de la Coutellerie； he took the Rue de la Coutellerie.
"Why not？" he said to himself.
Gringoire， a practical philosopher of the streets of Paris， had noticed that nothing is more propitious to revery than following a pretty woman without knowing whither she is going. There was in this voluntary abdication of his freewill， in this fancy submitting itself to another fancy， which suspects it not， a mixture of fantastic independence and blind obedience， something indescribable， intermediate between slavery and liberty， which pleased Gringoire，--a spirit essentially compound， undecided， and complex， holding the extremities of all extremes， incessantly suspended between all human propensities， and neutralizing one by the other. He was fond of comparing himself to Mahomet's coffin， attracted in two different directions by two loadstones， and hesitating eternally between the heights and the depths， between the vault and the pavement， between fall and ascent， between zenith and nadir.
If Gringoire had lived in our day， what a fine middle course he would hold between classicism and romanticism！
But he was not sufficiently primitive to live three hundred years， and 'tis a pity. His absence is a void which is but too sensibly felt to-day.
Moreover， for the purpose of thus following passers-by (and especially female passers-by) in the streets， which Gringoire was fond of doing， there is no better disposition than ignorance of where one is going to sleep.
So he walked along， very thoughtfully， behind the young girl， who hastened her pace and made her goat trot as she saw the bourgeois returning home and the taverns--the only shops which had been open that day--closing.
"After all，" he half thought to himself， "she must lodge somewhere； gypsies have kindly hearts. Who knows？--"And in the points of suspense which he placed after this reticence in his mind， there lay I know not what flattering ideas.
Meanwhile， from time to time， as he passed the last groups of bourgeois closing their doors， he caught some scraps of their conversation， which broke the thread of his pleasant hypotheses.
Now it was two old men accosting each other.
"Do you know that it is cold， Master Thibaut Fernicle？"(Gringoire had been aware of this since the beginning of the winter.)"Yes， indeed， Master Boniface Disome！ Are we going to have a winter such as we had three years ago， in '80， when wood cost eight sous the measure？""Bah！ that's nothing， Master Thibaut， compared with the winter of 1407， when it froze from St. Martin's Day until Candlemas！ and so cold that the pen of the registrar of the parliament froze every three words， in the Grand Chamber！ which interrupted the registration of justice."Further on there were two female neighbors at their windows， holding candles， which the fog caused to sputter.
"Has your husband told you about the mishap， Mademoiselle la Boudraque？""No. What is it， Mademoiselle Turquant？"
"The horse of M. Gilles Godin， the notary at the Chatelet， took fright at the Flemings and their procession， and overturned Master Philippe Avrillot， lay monk of the Célestins.""Really？"
"Actually."
"A bourgeois horse！ 'tis rather too much！ If it had been a cavalry horse， well and good！"And the windows were closed. But Gringoire had lost the thread of his ideas， nevertheless.
Fortunately， he speedily found it again， and he knotted it together without difficulty， thanks to the gypsy， thanks to Djali， who still walked in front of him； two fine， delicate， and charming creatures， whose tiny feet， beautiful forms， and graceful manners he was engaged in admiring， almost confusing them in his contemplation； believing them to be both young girls， from their intelligence and good friendship； regarding them both as goats，--so far as the lightness， agility， and dexterity of their walk were concerned.
