'No，I do not，'answered the gipsy.'But，'she added sharply，'you were following me too.Why did you follow me？'
'To tell you the honest truth，'replied Gringoire，'I don't know that either.'
There was a pause.Gringoire was scratching the table with his knife；the girl smiled to herself and seemed to be looking at something through the wall.Suddenly she began to sing，hardly above her breath：
'Quando las pintades aves Mudas estàn，y la tierra…'
She stopped abruptly，and fell to stroking Djali.
'That is a pretty little animal you have there.'
'It is my sister，'she replied.
'Why do they call you Esmeralda？'inquired the poet.
'I don't know.'
'Oh，do tell me.'
She drew from her bosom a little oblong bag hanging round her neck by a chain of berries.The bag，which exhaled a strong smell of camphor，was made of green silk，and had in the middle a large green glass bead like an emerald.'It is perhaps because of that，'said she.
Gringoire put out his hand for the little bag，but she drew back.'Do not touch it！It is an amulet，and either you will do mischief to the charm，or it will hurt you.'
The poet's curiosity became more and more lively.'Who gave it you？'
She laid a finger on her lips and hid the amulet again in her bosom.He tried her with further questions，but she scarcely answered.
'What does the word Esmeralda mean？'
'I don't know.'
'What language is it？'
'Egyptian，I think.'
'I thought as much，'said Gringoire.'You are not a native of this country？'
'I don't know.'
'Have you father or mother？'
She began singing to an old air：
'Mon père est oiseau，
Ma mère est oiselle.
Je passe l'eau sans nacelle，
Je passe l'eau sans bateau.
Ma mère est oiselle，
Mon père est oiseau.'
'Very good，'said Gringoire.'How old were you when you came to France？'
'Quite little.'
'And to Paris？'
'year.As we came through the Porte Papale I saw the reed linnet fly overhead.It was the end of August；I said，It will be a hard winter.'
'And so it was，'said Gringoire，delighted at this turn in the conversation.'I spent it in blowing on my fingers.So you have the gift of prophecy？'
She lapsed again into her laconic answers—'No.'
'That man whom you call the Duke of Egypt，is he the head of your tribe？'
'Yes.'
'Well，but it was he who united us in marriage，'observed the poet timidly.
She made her favourite little grimace.'Why，I don't even know your name！'
'My name？If you wish to know it，here it is—Pierre Gringoire.'
'I know a finer one than that，'said she.