The young girl smiled and seemed to be gazing through the wall at something. All at once she began to sing in a barely articulate voice，--~Quando las pintadas aves， Mudas estan， y la tierra~--** When the gay-plumaged birds grow weary， and the earth--She broke off abruptly， and began to caress Djali.
"That's a pretty animal of yours，" said Gringoire.
"She is my sister，" she answered.
"Why are you called 'la Esmeralda？'" asked the poet.
"I do not know."
"But why？"
She drew from her bosom a sort of little oblong bag， suspended from her neck by a string of adrézarach beads. This bag exhaled a strong odor of camphor. It was covered with green silk， and bore in its centre a large piece of green glass， in imitation of an emerald.
"Perhaps it is because of this，" said she.
Gringoire was on the point of taking the bag in his hand.
She drew back.
"Don't touch it！ It is an amulet. You would injure the charm or the charm would injure you."The poet's curiosity was more and more aroused.
"Who gave it to you？"
She laid one finger on her mouth and concealed the amulet in her bosom. He tried a few more questions， but she hardly replied.
"What is the meaning of the words， 'la Esmeralda？'""I don't know，" said she.
"To what language do they belong？"
"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 père est oiseau， Ma mère est oiselle.
BJe passe l'eau sans nacelle， Je passe l'eau sans bateau， Ma mère est oiselle， Mon père est oiseau~.** My father is a bird， my mother is a bird. I cross the water without a barque， I cross the water without a boat.
My mother is a bird， my father is a bird.
"Good，" said Gringoire. "At what age did you come to France？""When I was very young."
"And when to Paris？"
"Last year. At the moment when we were entering the papal gate I saw a reed warbler flit through the air， that was at the end of August； I said， it will be a hard winter.""So it was，" said Gringoire， delighted at this beginning of a conversation. "I passed it in blowing my fingers. So you have the gift of prophecy？"She retired into her laconics again.
"Is that man whom you call the Duke of Egypt， the chief of your tribe？""Yes."
"But it was he who married us，" remarked the poet timidly.
She made her customary pretty grimace.
"I don't even know your name."
"My name？ If you want it， here it is，--Pierre Gringoire.""I know a prettier one，" said she.
"Naughty girl！" retorted the poet. "Never mind， you shall not provoke me. Wait， perhaps you will love me more when you know me better； and then， you have told me your story with so much confidence， that I owe you a little of mine. You must know， then， that my name is Pierre Gringoire， and that I am a son of the farmer of the notary's office of Gonesse.
My father was hung by the Burgundians， and my mother disembowelled by the Picards， at the siege of Paris， twenty years ago. At six years of age， therefore， I was an orphan， without a sole to my foot except the pavements of Paris. I do not know how I passed the interval from six to sixteen. A fruit dealer gave me a plum here， a baker flung me a crust there；in the evening I got myself taken up by the watch， who threw me into prison， and there I found a bundle of straw. All this did not prevent my growing up and growing thin， as you see.
In the winter I warmed myself in the sun， under the porch of the H？tel de Sens， and I thought it very ridiculous that the fire on Saint John's Day was reserved for the dog days. At sixteen， I wished to choose a calling. I tried all in succession.
