'Perdition take these Parisians！'said he to himself—for as a true dramatic poet，Gringoire was greatly addicted to monologue—'now they prevent me getting near the fire—and Heaven knows I have need of a warm corner！My shoes are veritable sponges，and those cursed mill-wheels have been raining upon me.Devil take the Bishop of Paris and his mills！I'd like to know what a bishop wants with a mill.Does he expect he may some day have to turn miller instead of bishop？If he is only waiting for my curse to effect this transformation，he is welcome to it，and may it include his cathedral and his mills as well.Now，let us see if these varlets will make room for me.What are they doing there，I'd like to know.Warming themselves—a fine pleasure indeed！Watching a pile of fagots burn—a grand spectacle，i'faith！'
On looking closer，however，he perceived that the circle was much wider than necessary for merely warming one's self at the King's bonfire，and that such a crowd of spectators was not attracted solely by the beauty of a hundred blazing fagots.In the immense space left free between the crowd and the fire a girl was dancing，but whether she was a human being，a sprite，or an angel，was what Gringoire—sceptical philosopher，ironical poet though he might be—was unable for the moment to determine，so dazzled was he by the fascinating vision.
She was not tall，but her slender and elastic figure made her appear so.Her skin was brown，but one guessed that by day it would have the warm golden tint of the Andalusian and Roman women.Her small foot too，so perfectly at ease in its narrow，graceful shoe，was quite Andalusian.She was dancing，pirouetting，whirling on an old Persian carpet spread carelessly on the ground，and each time her radiant face passed before you，you caught the flash of her great dark eyes.
The crowd stood round her open-mouthed，every eye fixed upon her，and in truth，as she danced thus to the drumming of a tambourine held high above her head by her round and delicate arms，slender，fragile，airy as a wasp，with her gold-laced bodice closely moulded to her form，her bare shoulders，her gaily striped skirt swelling out round her，affording glimpses of her exquisitely shaped limbs，the dusky masses of her hair，her gleaming eyes，she seemed a creature of some other world.
'In very truth，'thought Gringoire，'it is a salamander—a nymph—'tis a goddess—a bacchante of Mount Mnalus！'
At this moment a tress of the'salamander's'hair became uncoiled，and a piece of brass attached to it fell to the ground.
'Why，no，'said he，''tis a gipsy！'and all illusion vanished.
She resumed her performance.Taking up two swords from the ground，she leaned the points against her forehead，and twisted them in one direction while she herself turned in another.
True，she was simply a gipsy；but however disenchanted Gringoire might feel，the scene was not without its charm，nor a certain weird magic under the glaring red light of the bonfire，which flared over the ring of faces and the figure of the dancing girl and cast a pale glimmer among the wavering shadows at the far end of the Place，flickering over the black and corrugated front of the old Maison-aux-Piliers，or the stone arms of the gibbet opposite.
Among the many faces dyed crimson by this glow was one which，more than all the others，seemed absorbed in contemplation of the dancer.It was the face of a man，austere，calm，and sombre.His costume was hidden by the crowd pressing round him；but though he did not appear to be more than thirty-five，he was bald，showing only a few sparse locks at the temples and they already gray.The broad high forehead was furrowed，but in the deep-set eyes there glowed an extraordinary youthfulness，a fervid vitality，a consuming passion.Those eyes never moved from the gipsy，and the longer the girl danced and bounded in all the unrestrained grace of her sixteen years，delighting the populace，the gloomier did his thoughts seem to become.Ever and anon a smile and a sigh would meet upon his lips，but the smile was the more grievous of the two.
At last，out of breath with her exertion，the girl stopped，and the people applauded with all their heart.
'Djali！'cried the gipsy.
At this there appeared a pretty little white goat，lively，intelligent，and glossy，with gilded horns and hoofs and a gilt collar，which Gringoire had not observed before，as it had been lying on a corner of the carpet，watching its mistress dance.
'Djali，'said the dancing girl，'it is your turn now，'and seating herself，she gracefully held out her tambourine to the goat.
'Now，Djali，'she continued，'which month of the year is it？'
The goat lifted its fore-foot and tapped once on the tambourine.It was in fact the first month.The crowd applauded.
'Djali，'resumed the girl，reversing the tambourine，'what day of the month is it？'
Djali lifted her little golden hoof and gave six strokes on the tambourine.
'Djali，'continued the gipsy girl，again changing the position of the tambourine，'what hour of the day is it？'
Djali gave seven strokes.At the same instant the clock of the Maison-aux-Piliers struck seven.
The people were lost in admiration and astonishment.
'There is witchcraft in this，'said a sinister voice in the crowd.It came from the bald man，who had never taken his eyes off the gipsy.
The girl shuddered and turned round，but the applause burst out afresh and drowned the morose exclamation—effaced it，indeed，so completely from her mind that she continued to interrogate her goat.
'Djali，show us how M re Guichard Grand-Remy，captain of the town sharp-shooters，walks in the procession at Candlemas.'
Djali stood up on her hind legs and began to bleat，while she strutted along with such a delightful air of gravity that the whole circle of spectators，irresistibly carried away by this parody on the devotional manner of the captain of the sharp-shooters，burst into a roar of laughter.
