This word did, indeed, produce a great effect on Phœbus, but not of the kind which the deaf man expected. It will be remembered that our gallant officer had retired with Fleur-de-Lys several moments before Quasimodo had rescued the condemned girl from the hands of Charmolue. Afterwards, in all his visits to the Gondelaurier mansion he had taken care not to mention that woman, the memory of whom was, after all, painful to him; and on her side, Fleur-de-Lys had not deemed it politic to tell him that the gypsy was alive. Hence Phœbus believed poor “Similar” to be dead, and that a month or two had elapsed since her death. Let us add that for the last few moments the captain had been reflecting on the profound darkness of the night, the supernatural ugliness, the sepulchral voice of the strange messenger; that it was past midnight; that the street was deserted, as on the evening when the surly monk had accosted him; and that his horse snorted as it looked at Quasimodo.
“The gypsy!” he exclaimed, almost frightened. “Look here, do you come from the other world?”
And he laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“Quick, quick,” said the deaf man, endeavoring to drag the horse along; “this way!”
Phœbus dealt him a vigorous kick in the breast.
Quasimodo’s eye flashed. He made a motion to fling himself on the captain. Then he drew himself up stiffly and said,—
“Oh! how happy you are to have some one who loves you!”
He emphasized the words “some one,” and loosing the horse’s bridle,—
“Begone!”
Phœbus spurred on in all haste, swearing. Quasimodo watched him disappear in the shades of the street.