'Hum！'responded Gringoire.'I am somewhat distrustful of kindness that has such thin nostrils and sharp lips.'
Here the bystanders imposed silence on the two talkers.An important deposition was being heard.
'My lords，'an old woman was saying，whose face and shape generally was so muffled in her garments that she looked like an animated heap of rags；'my lords，the thing is as true as that I am La Falourdel，for forty years a householder on the Pont Saint-Michel，and paying regularly all rents and dues and ground taxes—the door opposite to the house of Tassin-Caillart，the dyer，which is on the side looking up the river.A poor old woman now，a pretty girl once-a-days，my lords！Only a few days before，they said to me：'La Falourdel，do not spin too much of an evening，the devil is fond of combing old women's distaffs with his horns.'Tis certain that the spectre-monk who haunted the Temple last year is going about the city just now；take care，La Falourdel，that he does not knock at your door.'I ask who's there.Some one swears.I open the door.Two men come in—a man in black with a handsome officer.You could see nothing of the black man but his eyes—two live coals—all the rest hat and cloak.So they say to me：'The Sainte-Marthe room'—that is my upper room，my lords，my best one，and they give me a crown.I shut the crown in a drawer，and says I：'That will do to buy tripe to-morrow at the slaughter-house of La Gloriette.'We go upstairs.Arrived at the upper room，as I turn my back a moment，the man in black disappears.This astonishes me somewhat.The officer，who was handsome and grand as a lord，comes down again with me.He leaves the house，but in about the time to spin a quarter of a skein he returns with a beautiful young girl—a poppet who would have shone like a star had her locks been properly braided.Following her came a goat—a great goat—whether black or white I can't remember.This set me to thinking.The girl—that does not concern me—but the goat！I don't like those animals with their beards and horns—it's too like a man.Besides，that smells of witch-craft.However，I say nothing.I had the crown piece.That is only fair，is it not，my lord judge？So I show the captain and the girl into the upper room and leave them alone—that is to say，with the goat.I go down and get to my spinning again.I must tell you that my house has a ground floor and an upper storey；the back looks out on to the river，as do all the houses on the bridge，and the groundfloor window and the window of the upper floor open on to the water.Well，as I was saying，I sat down again to my spinning.I don't know why，but I began thinking about the spectre-monk whom the goat had brought to my mind，and that the pretty girl was dressed very outlandish，when all at once I hear a cry overhead and something fall on the floor，and then the window opening.I run to mine，which is just underneath，and see a black mass drop into the water—a phantom dressed like a priest.It was moonlight，so I saw it quite plainly.It swam away towards the city.Then，all of a tremble，I called the watch.The gentlemen of the guard came in，and at first，not knowing what was the matter，they made merry over it and began to beat me.I explained to them.We go upstairs，and what do we find？My unfortunate room swimming in blood，the captain stretched his whole length on the floor with a dagger in his neck，the girl ****** as if she were dead，and the goat in a fury.'A pretty business，'say I.''Twill be a fortnight's work to clean up these boards.It must be scraped—a terrible job！'They carried away the officer，poor young man，and the girl—halfnaked.But stay—the worst is to come.The next morning，when I went to take the crown to buy my tripe，I found a withered leaf in its place！'
The old beldame ceased.A murmur of horror went round the place.'That phantom，that goat—all this savours of magic，'said one of Gringoire's neighbours.'And that withered leaf，'added another.'There can be no doubt，'went on a third，'that it's some witch who has commerce with the spectre-monk to plunder officers.'Gringoire himself was not far from thinking this connection both probable and alarming.
'Woman Falourdel，'said the President with majesty，'have you nothing further to declare to the court？'
'No，my lord，'answered the woman，'unless that in the report my house has been named a tumble-down and stinking hovel，which is insulting language.The houses on the bridge are not very handsome，because they swarm with people；but，nevertheless，the butchers live there，and they are wealthy men with handsome and careful wives.'
The magistrate who reminded Gringoire of a crocodile now rose.'Peace！'said he.'I would beg you gentlemen not to lose sight of the fact that a dagger was found on the accused.Woman Falourdel，have you brought with you the withered leaf into which the crown was transformed that the demon gave you？'
'Yes，my lord.I found it again.Here it is.'
An usher handed the dead leaf to the crocodile，who，with a doleful shake of the head，passed it to the President，who sent it on to the procurator of the Ecclesiastical Court，so that it finally made the round of the hall.
''Tis a beech leaf，'said M re Jacques Charmolue，'an additional proof of magic！'
A councillor then took up the word.'Witness，you say two men went up together in your house：the man in black whom you first saw disappear and then swimming in the Seine in priest's habit，and the officer.Which of the two gave you the crown？'
The hag reflected for a moment，then answered，'It was the officer.'
A murmur ran through the crowd.
'Ah，'thought Gringoire，'that somewhat shakes my conviction.'