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 pére est oiseau,
Ma mere est oiselle.
Je passe l'eau sans nacelle,
Je passe l'eau sans bateau, Ma mere est oiselle,
Mon pere est oiseau.[1]
"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.
"No."
"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 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.
