He hoped，however，that the affair would not be noised abroad，and that，he being absent，his name would hardly be mentioned in connection with it；or，at any rate，would not be heard beyond the court-room of the Tournelle.And in this he judged aright—there was no Criminal Gazette in those days，and as hardly a week passed without some coiner being boiled alive，some witch hanged，or heretic sent to the stake at one or other of the numberless'justices'of Paris，people were so accustomed to see the old feudal Themis at every crossway，her arms bar and sleeves rolled up，busy with her pitchforks，her gibbets，and her pillories，that scarcely any notice was taken of her.The beau monde of that age hardly knew the name of the poor wretch passing at the corner of the street；at most，it was the populace that regaled itself on these gross viands.An execution was one of the ordinary incidents of the public way，like the brasier of the pie-man or the butcher's slaughter-house.The executioner was but a butcher，only a little more skilled than the other.
P us，therefore，very soon set his mind at rest on the subject of the enchantress Esmeralda，or Similar，as he called her，of the dagger-thrust he had received from the gipsy or the spectre-monk（it mattered little to him which），and the issue of the trial.But no sooner was his heart vacant on that score，than the image of Fleur-de-Lys returned to it—for the heart of Captain P us，like Nature，abhorred a vacuum.
Moreover，Queue-en-Brie was not a diverting place—a village of farriers and herd-girls with rough hands，a straggling row of squalid huts and cabins bordering the high-road for half a league—in short，a world's end.
Fleur-de-Lys was his last flame but one，a pretty girl，a charming dot；and so one fine morning，being quite cured of his wound，and fairly presuming that after the interval of two months the business of the gipsy girl must be over and forgotten，the amorous cavalier pranced up in high feather to the door of the ancestral mansion of the Gondelauriers.He paid no attention to a very numerous crowd collecting in the Place du Parvis before the great door of Notre-Dame.Remembering that it was the month of May，he concluded that it was some procession—some Whitsuntide or other festival—tied his steed up to the ring at the porch，and gaily ascended the stair to his fair betrothed.
He found her alone with her mother.
On the heart of Fleur-de-Lys the scene of the gipsy with her goat and its accursed alphabet，combined with her lover's long absences，still weighed heavily.Nevertheless，when she saw her captain enter，she found him so handsome in his brand-new doublet and shining baldrick，and wearing so impassioned an air，that she blushed with pleasure.The noble damsel herself was more charming than ever.Her magnificent golden tresses were braided to perfection，she was robed in that azure blue which so well becomes a blonde—a piece of coquetry she had learned from Colombe—and her eyes were swimming in that dewy languor which is still more becoming.
P us，who in the matter of beauty had been reduced to the country wenches of Queue-en-Brie，was ravished by Fleur-de-Lys，which lent our officer so pressing and gallant an air that his peace was made forthwith.The Lady of Gondelaurier herself，still maternally seated in her great chair，had not the heart to scold him.As for Fleur-de-Lys，her reproaches died away in tender cooings.
The young lady was seated near the window still engaged upon her grotto of Neptune.The captain leaned over the back of her seat，while she murmured her fond upbraidings.
'What have you been doing with yourself these two long months，unkind one？'
'I swear，'answered P us，somewhat embarrassed by this question，'that you are beautiful enough to make an archbishop dream.'
She could not repress a smile.
'Go to—go to，sir.Leave the question of my beauty and answer me.Fine beauty，to be sure！'
Well，dearest cousin，I was in garrison.'
'And where，if you pleas nd why did you not come and bid me adieu？'
'At Queue-en-Brie.'
P us was delighted that the first question had helped him to elude the second.
'But that is quite near，monsieur；how is it you never once came to see me？'
This was seriously embarrassing.
'Because—well—the service—and besides，charming cousin，I have been ill.'
'Ill？'she exclaimed in alarm.
'Yes—wounded.'
'Wounded！'The poor girl was quite upset.
'Oh，do not let that frighten you，'said P us carelessly；'it was nothing.A quarrel—a mere scratch—what does it signify to you？'
'What does it signify to me？'cried Fleur-de-Lys，lifting her beautiful eyes full of tears.'Oh，you cannot mean what you say.What was it all about—I will know.'
'Well，then，my fair one，I had some words with Mahé Fédy—you know—the lieutenant of Saint-Germain-en-Laye，and each of us ripped up a few inches of the other's skin—that is all.'
The inventive captain knew very well that an affair of honour always sets off a man to advantage in a woman's eye.And sure enough，Fleur-de-Lys looked up into his fine face with mingled sensations of fear，pleasure，and admiration.However，she did not feel entirely reassured.
'I only hope you are completely cured，my P us！'she said.'I am not acquainted with your Mahé Fédy；but he must be an odious wretch.And what was this quarrel about？'
Here P us，whose imagination was not particularly creative，began to be rather at a loss how to beat a convenient retreat out of his encounter.
'Oh，how should I know？—a mere trifle—a horse—a hasty word！Fair cousin，'said he，by way of changing the conversation，'what is all this going on in the Parvis？'He went to the window.'Look，fair cousin，there is a great crowd in the Place.'
'I do not know，'answered Fleur-de-Lys；'it seems a witch is to do penance this morning before the church on her way to the gallows.'
So entirely did the captain believe the affair of Esmeralda to be terminated，that he took little heed of these words of Fleur-de-Lys.Nevertheless，he asked a careless question or two.