“They are Egyptian, I think.”
“I suspected as much,” said Gringoire, “you are not a native of France?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are your parents alive?”
She began to sing, to an ancient air, —
Mon p�re est oiseau,
Ma m�re est oiselle.
Je passe l’eau sans nacelle,
Je passe l’eau sans bateau,
Ma m�re est oiselle,
Mon p�re est oiseau.
“Good,” said Gringoire. “At what age did you come to France?”