The poet’s curiosity was more and more aroused.
“ Who gave it to you?”
She laid one finger on her mouth and concealed the amulet 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 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.
“ Good,” said Gringoire. “At what age did you come to France?”
“ When I was very young.”
“ And when to Paris?”
