Thus，each succeeding morn found her calmer，less pale，breathing more freely.And as the wounds of her spirit healed，her outward grace and beauty bloomed forth again，but richer，more composed.Her former character also returned—something even of her gaiety，her pretty pout，her love for her goat，her pleasure in singing，her delicate modesty.She was careful to retire into the most secluded corner of her cell when dressing in the mornings，lest some one from the neighbouring attics should see her through the little window.
When her dreams of P us left her the leisure，the gipsy sometimes let her thoughts stray to Quasimodo—the only link，the only means of communication with mankind，with life，that remained to her.Hapless creature！she was more cut off from the world than Quasimodo himself.She knew not what to think of the singular friend whom chance had given her.She often reproached herself that hers was not the gratitude that could veil her eyes，but it was useless—she could not accustom herself to the poor bell–ringer.He was too repulsive.
She had left the whistle he gave her lying on the ground；which，however，did not prevent Quasimodo from appearing from time to time during the first days.She did her very utmost not to turn away in disgust when he brought her the basket of provisions and the pitcher of water，but he instantly perceived the slightest motion of the kind，and hastened sorrowfully away.
Once he happened to come at the moment she was caressing Djali.He stood a few minutes pensively contemplating the charming group，and at last said，shaking his heavy，misshapen head：
'My misfortune is that I am still too much like a man.Would I were a beast outright like that goat！'
She raised her eyes to him in astonishment.
He answered her look.'Oh，I know very well why.'And he went away.
Another time he presented himself at the door of the cell（into which he never entered）while Esmeralda was singing an old Spanish ballad，the words of which she did not understand，but which had lingered in her ear because the gipsy women had sung her to sleep with it when a child.At the sight of the hideous face appearing suddenly，the girl broke off with an involuntary gesture of fright.The unhappy bell–ringer fell upon his knees on the threshold，and with a suppliant look clasped his great shapeless hands.'Oh！'he said in piteous accents，'I conjure you to continue—do not drive me away！'Unwilling to pain him，she tremblingly resumed her song，and by degrees her fright wore off，till she abandoned herself wholly to the slow and plaintive measure of the air.He，the while，had remained upon his knees，his hands clasped as if in prayer—attentive，scarcely breathing—his gaze fixed on the gipsy's radiant eyes.He seemed to hear the music of her voice in those twin stars.
Another time again，he approached her with an awkward and timid air.'Listen，'said he with an effort，'I have something to say to you.'She signed to him that she was listening.He sighed deeply，opened his lips，seemed for a moment to be on the point of speaking，then looked her in the face，shook his head，and slowly withdrew，his forehead bowed in his hand，leaving the Egyptian wondering and amazed.
Among the grotesques sculptured on the wall，there was one for which he had a particular affection，and with which he often seemed to exchange fraternal looks.Once the gipsy heard him say to it：'Oh！why am I not fashioned of stone like thee？'
At length，one morning Esmeralda had advanced to the edge of the roof and was looking down into the Place over the sharp roof–ridge of Saint–Jean le Rond.Quasimodo stood behind her，as was his habit，that he might spare her as much as possible the pain of seeing him.Suddenly the gipsy started；a tear and a flash of joy shone together in her eyes；she fell on her knees，and stretching out her arms in anguish towards the Place：
'P us！'she cried，'come！come to me！one word，one single word，for the love of heaven！P us！P us！'
Her voice，her face，her gesture，her whole attitude had the heart–rending aspect of a shipwrecked mariner making signals of distress to some gay vessel passing on the distant horizon in a gleam of sunshine.
Leaning over in his turn，Quasimodo perceived the object of this tender and agonizing prayer—a young man，a soldier，a handsome cavalier glittering in arms and gay attire，who was caracoling through the Place and sweeping his plumed hat to a lady smiling down on him from a balcony.The officer could not hear the unhappy girl calling to him.He was too far off.
But the poor deaf ringer heard.A profound sigh heaved his breast.He turned away.His heart was swelling with the tears he drove back；his two clenched fists went up convulsively to his head，and when he drew them away they each held a handful of his rough red hair.
The Egyptian paid no heed to him.
'Damnation！'he muttered，as he ground his teeth，'so that is how a man should be—he need only have a handsome outside！'
Meanwhile she was still on her knees crying out in terrible agitation：
'Oh！—now he is dismounting from his horse—he is going into that house—P us！He does not hear me.P us！The shameless woman，to be speaking to him at the same time that I do！P us！P us！'
The deaf man watched her.He understood her gestures，and the poor bell–ringer's eye filled with tears，though he let not one of them fall.Presently he pulled her gently by the hem of her sleeve.She turned round.He had assumed an untroubled mien.
'Shall I go and fetch him？'he asked quietly.
She gave a cry of joy.'Oh，go！Go quickly—run！hasten！it is that officer！that officer—bring him to me，and I will love thee！'
She clasped his knees.He could not refrain from shaking his head mournfully.
'I will bring him to you，'he said in a low voice；then，turning away his head，he strode to the stair–case，suffocating with sobs.
By the time he reached the Place there was nothing to be seen but the horse fastened to the door of the Gondelaurier's house.The captain had gone in.
