Ch�teaupers.”

“Phoebus!

A curious name! There is also a Phoebus,

Comte de Foix. I remember having known a wench who

swore only by the name of Phoebus.”

“Come away from here,” said the priest. “I have something to say to you.”

From the moment of that troop’s passing, some agitation had pierced through the archdeacon’s glacial envelope. He walked on. Gringoire followed him, being accustomed to obey him, like all who had once approached that man so full of ascendency. They reached in silence the Rue des Bernardins, which was nearly deserted. Here Dom Claude paused.

“What have you to say to me, master?”