She replied by a negative sign of the head, and her pensive glance fixed itself upon the vault of the ceiling.

“What the deuce is she thinking of?” thought Gringoire, staring at what she was gazing at; “‘tis impossible that it can be that stone dwarf carved in the keystone of that arch, which thus absorbs her attention. What the deuce! I can bear the comparison!”

He raised his voice, “Mademoiselle!”

She seemed not to hear him.

He repeated, still more loudly, “Mademoiselle Esmeralda!”

Trouble wasted. The young girl’s mind was elsewhere, and Gringoire’s voice had not the power to recall it. Fortunately, the goat