"One moment！" said he； "I forgot！ It is our custom not to hang a man without inquiring whether there is any woman who wants him. Comrade， this is your last resource. You must wed either a female vagabond or the noose."This law of the vagabonds， singular as it may strike the reader， remains to-day written out at length， in ancient English legislation. (See _Burington's Observations_.)Gringoire breathed again. This was the second time that he had returned to life within an hour. So he did not dare to trust to it too implicitly.
"Holà！" cried Clopin， mounted once more upon his cask， "holà！ women， females， is there among you， from the sorceress to her cat， a wench who wants this rascal？ Holà， Colette la Charonne！ Elisabeth Trouvain！ Simone Jodouyne！
Marie Piédebou！ Thonne la Longue！ Bérarde Fanouel！ Michelle Genaille！ Claude Ronge-oreille！ Mathurine Girorou！--Holà！
Isabeau-la-Thierrye！ Come and see！ A man for nothing！
Who wants him？"
Gringoire， no doubt， was not very appetizing in this miserable condition. The female vagabonds did not seem to be much affected by the proposition. The unhappy wretch heard them answer： "No！ no！ hang him； there'll be the more fun for us all！"Nevertheless， three emerged from the throng and came to smell of him. The first was a big wench， with a square face.
She examined the philosopher's deplorable doublet attentively.
His garment was worn， and more full of holes than a stove for roasting chestnuts. The girl made a wry face. "Old rag！" she muttered， and addressing Gringoire， "Let's see your cloak！""I have lost it，" replied Gringoire. "Your hat？" "They took it away from me." "Your shoes？" "They have hardly any soles left." "Your purse？" "Alas！" stammered Gringoire， "Ihave not even a sou." "Let them hang you， then， and say 'Thank you！'" retorted the vagabond wench， turning her back on him.
The second，--old， black， wrinkled， hideous， with an ugliness conspicuous even in the Cour des Miracles， trotted round Gringoire.
He almost trembled lest she should want him. But she mumbled between her teeth， "He's too thin，" and went off.
The third was a young girl， quite fresh， and not too ugly.
"Save me！" said the poor fellow to her， in a low tone. She gazed at him for a moment with an air of pity， then dropped her eyes， made a plait in her petticoat， and remained in indecision.
He followed all these movements with his eyes； it was the last gleam of hope. "No，" said the young girl， at length， "no！ Guillaume Longuejoue would beat me." She retreated into the crowd.
"You are unlucky， comrade，" said Clopin.
Then rising to his feet， upon his hogshead. "No one wants him，" he exclaimed， imitating the accent of an auctioneer， to the great delight of all； "no one wants him？ once， twice， three times！" and， turning towards the gibbet with a sign of his hand， "Gone！"Bellevigne de l'Etoile， Andry the Red， Fran？ois Chante-Prune， stepped up to Gringoire.
At that moment a cry arose among the thieves： "La Esmeralda！
La Esmeralda！"
Gringoire shuddered， and turned towards the side whence the clamor proceeded.
The crowd opened， and gave passage to a pure and dazzling form.
It was the gypsy.
"La Esmeralda！" said Gringoire， stupefied in the midst of his emotions， by the abrupt manner in which that magic word knotted together all his reminiscences of the day.
This rare creature seemed， even in the Cour des Miracles， to exercise her sway of charm and beauty. The vagabonds， male and female， ranged themselves gently along her path， and their brutal faces beamed beneath her glance.
She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty Djali followed her. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She examined him for a moment in silence.
"You are going to hang this man？" she said gravely， to Clopin.
"Yes， sister，" replied the King of Thunes， "unless you will take him for your husband."She made her pretty little pout with her under lip. "I'll take him，" said she.
Gringoire firmly believed that he had been in a dream ever since morning， and that this was the continuation of it.
The change was， in fact， violent， though a gratifying one.
They undid the noose， and made the poet step down from the stool. His emotion was so lively that he was obliged to sit down.
The Duke of Egypt brought an earthenware crock， without uttering a word. The gypsy offered it to Gringoire： "Fling it on the ground，" said she.
The crock broke into four pieces.
"Brother，" then said the Duke of Egypt， laying his hands upon their foreheads， "she is your wife； sister， he is your husband for four years. Go."
