It was covered with green silk, and bore in its centre a large piece of green glass, in imitation of an emerald.
"Perhaps it is because of this," said she.
Gringoire was on the point of taking the bag in his hand.

She drew back.
"Don't touch it! It is an amulet.

You would injure the charm or the charm would injure you." 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 pere est oiseau, Ma mere est oiselle.
Je passe l'eau sans nacelle, Je passe l'eau sans bateau, Ma mere est oiselle, Mon pere est oiseau_.* * My father is a bird, my mother is a bird.

I cross the water without a barque, I cross the water without a boat.

My mother is a bird, my father is a bird.
"Good," said Gringoire.