[Claude Frollo's earnestness seems to trouble Phœbus, who looks at his interrogator with anxiety.
PHŒBUS.
He astounds me!
Ah, he wounds me,
In spite of myself, with doubt!
This city great
Is full of hate,
And treachery is all about!
CLAUDE FROLLO.
I astound him,
And I wound him,
In spite of himself, with doubt.
The fool, he fears,
And sees and hears
Nothing but treachery about.
Believe me—my lord, avoid the siren
Who lures you to destruction.
More than one gypsy in her rage
Has stabbed a heart palpitating with love.
[Phœbus, whom he tries to drag along, recovers himself and pushes him off.
PHŒBUS.
Have I become a fool?
Gypsy, Jewess, or Moor,
The love that questions what she be
Is love most base and poor.
The fateful hour is come,
Unto my love I fly!
If death be but as sweet as she,
It will be fine to die!
CLAUDE FROLLO (holding him).