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¡¶BOOK FIRST CHAPTER 1.THE GRAND HALL. Page 1¡·
Three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago to-day, the parisians awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal.
The sixth of January, 1482, is not, however, a day of which history has preserved the memory.There was nothing notable in the event which thus set the bells and the bourgeois of paris in a ferment from early morning.It was neither an assault by the picards nor the Burgundians, nor a hunt led along in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the town of Laas, nor an entry of "our much dread lord, monsieur the king," nor even a pretty hanging of male and female thieves by the courts of paris.Neither was it the arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some plumed and bedizened embassy. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of that nature, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into paris, to the great annoyance of M. le Cardinal de Bourbon, who, for the sake of pleasing the king, had been obliged to assume an amiable mien towards this whole rustic rabble of Flemish burgomasters, and to regale them at his H?tel de Bourbon, with a very "pretty morality, allegorical satire, and farce," while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door.
What put the "whole population of paris in commotion," as Jehan de Troyes expresses it, on the sixth of January, was the double solemnity, united from time immemorial, of the Epiphany and the Feast of Fools.
On that day, there was to be a bonfire on the place de Gr¨¨ve, a maypole at the Chapelle de Braque, and a mystery at the palais de Justice.It had been cried, to the sound of the trumpet, the preceding evening at all the cross roads, by the provost's men, clad in handsome, short, sleeveless coats of violet camelot, with large white crosses upon their breasts.
So the crowd of citizens, male and female, having closed their houses and shops, thronged from every direction, at early morn, towards some one of the three spots designated.
Each had made his choice; one, the bonfire; another, the maypole; another, the mystery play.It must be stated, in honor of the good sense of the loungers of paris, that the greater part of this crowd directed their steps towards the bonfire, which was quite in season, or towards the mystery play, which was to be presented in the grand hall of the palais de Justice (the courts of law), which was well roofed and walled; and that the curious left the poor, scantily flowered maypole to shiver all alone beneath the sky of January, in the cemetery of the Chapel of Braque.
The populace thronged the avenues of the law courts in particular, because they knew that the Flemish ambassadors, who had arrived two days previously, intended to be present at the representation of the mystery, and at the election of the pope of the Fools, which was also to take place in the grand hall.
It was no easy matter on that day, to force one's way into that grand hall, although it was then reputed to be the largest covered enclosure in the world (it is true that Sauval had not yet measured the grand hall of the Chateau of Montargis). The palace place, encumbered with people, offered to the curious gazers at the windows the aspect of a sea; into which five or six streets, like so many mouths of rivers, discharged every moment fresh floods of heads.The waves of this crowd, augmented incessantly, dashed against the angles of the houses which projected here and there, like so many promontories, into the irregular basin of the place.In the centre of the lofty Gothic* fa?ade of the palace, the grand staircase, incessantly ascended and descended by a double current, which, after parting on the intermediate landing-place, flowed in broad waves along its lateral slopes,--the grand staircase, I say, trickled incessantly into the place, like a cascade into a lake.The cries, the laughter, the trampling of those thousands of feet, produced a great noise and a great clamor.From time to time, this noise and clamor redoubled; the current which drove the crowd towards the grand staircase flowed backwards, became troubled, formed whirlpools. This was produced by the buffet of an archer, or the horse of one of the provost's sergeants, which kicked to restore order; an admirable tradition which the provostship has bequeathed to the constablery, the constablery to the ~mar¨¦chauss¨¦e~, the ~mar¨¦chauss¨¦e~ to our ~gendarmeri~ of paris.
*The word Gothic, in the sense in which it is generally employed, is wholly unsuitable, but wholly consecrated.Hence we accept it and we adopt it, like all the rest of the world, to characterize the architecture of the second half of the Middle Ages, where the ogive is the principle which succeeds the architecture of the first period, of which the semi-circle is the father.
Thousands of good, calm, bourgeois faces thronged the windows, the doors, the dormer windows, the roofs, gazing at the palace, gazing at the populace, and asking nothing more; for many parisians content themselves with the spectacle of the spectators, and a wall behind which something is going on becomes at once, for us, a very curious thing indeed.
If it could be granted to us, the men of 1830, to mingle in thought with those parisians of the fifteenth century, and to enter with them, jostled, elbowed, pulled about, into that immense hall of the palace, which was so cramped on that sixth of January, 1482, the spectacle would not be devoid of either interest or charm, and we should have about us only things that were so old that they would seem new.
With the reader's consent, we will endeavor to retrace in thought, the impression which he would have experienced in company with us on crossing the threshold of that grand hall, in the midst of that tumultuous crowd in surcoats, short, sleeveless jackets, and doublets.
And, first of all, there is a buzzing in the ears, a dazzlement in the eyes.Above our heads is a double ogive vault, panelled with wood carving, painted azure, and sown with golden fleurs-de-lis; beneath our feet a pavement of black and white marble, alternating.A few paces distant, an enormous pillar, then another, then another; seven pillars in all, down the length of the hall, sustaining the spring of the arches of the double vault, in the centre of its width.Around four of the pillars, stalls of merchants, all sparkling with glass and tinsel; around the last three, benches of oak, worn and polished by the trunk hose of the litigants, and the robes of the attorneys.Around the hall, along the lofty wall, between the doors, between the windows, between the pillars, the interminable row of all the kings of France, from pharamond down: the lazy kings, with pendent arms and downcast eyes; the valiant and combative kings, with heads and arms raised boldly heavenward.Then in the long, pointed windows, glass of a thousand hues; at the wide entrances to the hall, rich doors, finely sculptured; and all, the vaults, pillars, walls, jambs, panelling, doors, statues, covered from top to bottom with a splendid blue and gold illumination, which, a trifle tarnished at the epoch when we behold it, had almost entirely disappeared beneath dust and spiders in the year of grace, 1549, when du Breul still admired it from tradition.
Let the reader picture to himself now, this immense, oblong hall, illuminated by the pallid light of a January day, invaded by a motley and noisy throng which drifts along the walls, and eddies round the seven pillars, and he will have a confused idea of the whole effect of the picture, whose curious details we shall make an effort to indicate with more precision.
It is certain, that if Ravaillac had not assassinated Henri IV., there would have been no documents in the trial of Ravaillac deposited in the clerk's office of the palais de Justice, no accomplices interested in causing the said documents to disappear; hence, no incendiaries obliged, for lack of better means, to burn the clerk's office in order to burn the documents, and to burn the palais de Justice in order to burn the clerk's office; consequently, in short, no conflagration in 1618. The old palais would be standing still, with its ancient grand hall; I should be able to say to the reader, "Go and look at it," and we should thus both escape the necessity,--I of making, and he of reading, a description of it, such as it is. Which demonstrates a new truth: that great events have incalculable results.
It is true that it may be quite possible, in the first place, that Ravaillac had no accomplices; and in the second, that if he had any, they were in no way connected with the fire of 1618.Two other very plausible explanations exist: First, the great flaming star, a foot broad, and a cubit high, which fell from heaven, as every one knows, upon the law courts, after midnight on the seventh of March; second, Th¨¦ophile's quatrain,--
"Sure, 'twas but a sorry game When at paris, Dame Justice, Through having eaten too much spice, Set the palace all aflame."
Whatever may be thought of this triple explanation, political, physical, and poetical, of the burning of the law courts in 1618, the unfortunate fact of the fire is certain.Very little to-day remains, thanks to this catastrophe,--thanks, above all, to the successive restorations which have completed what it spared,--very little remains of that first dwelling of the kings of France,--of that elder palace of the Louvre, already so old in the time of philip the Handsome, that they sought there for the traces of the magnificent buildings erected by King Robert and described by Helgaldus.Nearly everything has disappeared.What has become of the chamber of the chancellery, where Saint Louis consummated his marriage? the garden where he administered justice, "clad in a coat of camelot, a surcoat of linsey-woolsey, without sleeves, and a sur-mantle of black sandal, as he lay upon the carpet with Joinville?"Where is the chamber of the Emperor Sigismond? and that of Charles IV.? that of Jean the Landless? Where is the staircase, from which Charles VI. promulgated his edict of pardon? the slab where Marcel cut the throats of Robert de Clermont and the Marshal of Champagne, in the presence of the dauphin? the wicket where the bulls of pope Benedict were torn, and whence those who had brought them departed decked out, in derision, in copes and mitres, and making an apology through all paris? and the grand hall, with its gilding, its azure, its statues, its pointed arches, its pillars, its immense vault, all fretted with carvings? and the gilded chamber? and the stone lion, which stood at the door, with lowered head and tail between his legs, like the lions on the throne of Solomon, in the humiliated attitude which befits force in the presence of justice? and the beautiful doors? and the stained glass? and the chased ironwork, which drove Biscornette to despair? and the delicate woodwork of Hancy?What has time, what have men done with these marvels?What have they given us in return for all this Gallic history, for all this Gothic art?The heavy flattened arches of M. de Brosse, that awkward architect of the Saint-Gervais portal.So much for art; and, as for history, we have the gossiping reminiscences of the great pillar, still ringing with the tattle of the patru.
It is not much.Let us return to the veritable grand hall of the veritable old palace.The two extremities of this gigantic parallelogram were occupied, the one by the famous marble table, so long, so broad, and so thick that, as the ancient land rolls--in a style that would have given Gargantua an appetite--say, "such a slice of marble as was never beheld in the world"; the other by the chapel where Louis XI. had himself sculptured on his knees before the Virgin, and whither he caused to be brought, without heeding the two gaps thus made in the row of royal statues, the statues of Charlemagne and of Saint Louis, two saints whom he supposed to be great in favor in heaven, as kings of France. This chapel, quite new, having been built only six years, was entirely in that charming taste of delicate architecture, of marvellous sculpture, of fine and deep chasing, which marks with us the end of the Gothic era, and which is perpetuated to about the middle of the sixteenth century in the fairylike fancies of the Renaissance.The little open-work rose window, pierced above the portal, was, in particular, a masterpiece of lightness and grace; one would have pronounced it a star of lace.
In the middle of the hall, opposite the great door, a platform of gold brocade, placed against the wall, a special entrance to which had been effected through a window in the corridor of the gold chamber, had been erected for the Flemish emissaries and the other great personages invited to the presentation of the mystery play.
It was upon the marble table that the mystery was to be enacted, as usual.It had been arranged for the purpose, early in the morning; its rich slabs of marble, all scratched by the heels of law clerks, supported a cage of carpenter's work of considerable height, the upper surface of which, within view of the whole hall, was to serve as the theatre, and whose interior, masked by tapestries, was to take the place of dressing-rooms for the personages of the piece.A ladder, naively placed on the outside, was to serve as means of communication between the dressing-room and the stage, and lend its rude rungs to entrances as well as to exits. There was no personage, however unexpected, no sudden change, no theatrical effect, which was not obliged to mount that ladder.Innocent and venerable infancy of art and contrivances!
Four of the bailiff of the palace's sergeants, perfunctory guardians of all the pleasures of the people, on days of festival as well as on days of execution, stood at the four corners of the marble table.
The piece was only to begin with the twelfth stroke of the great palace clock sounding midday.It was very late, no doubt, for a theatrical representation, but they had been obliged to fix the hour to suit the convenience of the ambassadors.
Now, this whole multitude had been waiting since morning. A goodly number of curious, good people had been shivering since daybreak before the grand staircase of the palace; some even affirmed that they had passed the night across the threshold of the great door, in order to make sure that they should be the first to pass in.The crowd grew more dense every moment, and, like water, which rises above its normal level, began to mount along the walls, to swell around the pillars, to spread out on the entablatures, on the cornices, on the window-sills, on all the salient points of the architecture, on all the reliefs of the sculpture.Hence, discomfort, impatience, weariness, the liberty of a day of cynicism and folly, the quarrels which break forth for all sorts of causes--a pointed elbow, an iron-shod shoe, the fatigue of long waiting--had already, long before the hour appointed for the arrival of the ambassadors, imparted a harsh and bitter accent to the clamor of these people who were shut in, fitted into each other, pressed, trampled upon, stifled.Nothing was to be heard but imprecations on the Flemish, the provost of the merchants, the Cardinal de Bourbon, the bailiff of the courts, Madame Marguerite of Austria, the sergeants with their rods, the cold, the heat, the bad weather, the Bishop of paris, the pope of the Fools, the pillars, the statues, that closed door, that open window; all to the vast amusement of a band of scholars and lackeys scattered through the mass, who mingled with all this discontent their teasing remarks, and their malicious suggestions, and pricked the general bad temper with a pin, so to speak.
Among the rest there was a group of those merry imps, who, after smashing the glass in a window, had seated themselves hardily on the entablature, and from that point despatched their gaze and their railleries both within and without, upon the throng in the hall, and the throng upon the place. It was easy to see, from their parodied gestures, their ringing laughter, the bantering appeals which they exchanged with their comrades, from one end of the hall to the other, that these young clerks did not share the weariness and fatigue of the rest of the spectators, and that they understood very well the art of extracting, for their own private diversion from that which they had under their eyes, a spectacle which made them await the other with patience.
"Upon my soul, so it's you, 'Joannes Frollo de Molendino!'" cried one of them, to a sort of little, light-haired imp, with a well-favored and malign countenance, clinging to the acanthus leaves of a capital; "you are well named John of the Mill, for your two arms and your two legs have the air of four wings fluttering on the breeze.How long have you been here?"
"By the mercy of the devil," retorted Joannes Frollo, "these four hours and more; and I hope that they will be reckoned to my credit in purgatory.I heard the eight singers of the King of Sicily intone the first verse of seven o'clock mass in the Sainte-Chapelle."
"Fine singers!" replied the other, "with voices even more pointed than their caps!Before founding a mass for Monsieur Saint John, the king should have inquired whether Monsieur Saint John likes Latin droned out in a proven?al accent."
"He did it for the sake of employing those accursed singers of the King of Sicily!" cried an old woman sharply from among the crowd beneath the window."I just put it to you!A thousand ~livres parisi~ for a mass! and out of the tax on sea fish in the markets of paris, to boot!"
"peace, old crone," said a tall, grave person, stopping up his nose on the side towards the fishwife; "a mass had to be founded.Would you wish the king to fall ill again?"
"Bravely spoken, Sire Gilles Lecornu, master furrier of king's robes!" cried the little student, clinging to the capital.
A shout of laughter from all the students greeted the unlucky name of the poor furrier of the king's robes.
"Lecornu!Gilles Lecornu!" said some.
"~Cornutus et hirsutus~, horned and hairy," another went on.
"He! of course," continued the small imp on the capital, "What are they laughing at?An honorable man is Gilles Lecornu, brother of Master Jehan Lecornu, provost of the king's house, son of Master Mahiet Lecornu, first porter of the Bois de Vincennes,--all bourgeois of paris, all married, from father to son."
The gayety redoubled.The big furrier, without uttering a word in reply, tried to escape all the eyes riveted upon him from all sides; but he perspired and panted in vain; like a wedge entering the wood, his efforts served only to bury still more deeply in the shoulders of his neighbors, his large, apoplectic face, purple with spite and rage.
At length one of these, as fat, short, and venerable as himself, came to his rescue.
"Abomination! scholars addressing a bourgeois in that fashion in my day would have been flogged with a fagot, which would have afterwards been used to burn them."

¡¶BOOK FIRST CHAPTER 1.THE GRAND HALL. Page 2¡·
The whole band burst into laughter.
"Hol¨¤ h¨¦! who is scolding so?Who is that screech owl of evil fortune?"
"Hold, I know him" said one of them; "'tis Master Andry Musnier."
"Because he is one of the four sworn booksellers of the university!" said the other.
"Everything goes by fours in that shop," cried a third; "the four nations, the four faculties, the four feasts, the four procurators, the four electors, the four booksellers."
"Well," began Jean Frollo once more," we must play the devil with them."*
*~Faire le diable a quatre~.
"Musnier, we'll burn your books."
"Musnier, we'll beat your lackeys."
"Musnier, we'll kiss your wife."
"That fine, big Mademoiselle Oudarde."
"Who is as fresh and as gay as though she were a widow."
"Devil take you!" growled Master Andry Musnier.
"Master Andry," pursued Jean Jehan, still clinging to his capital, "hold your tongue, or I'll drop on your head!"
Master Andry raised his eyes, seemed to measure in an instant the height of the pillar, the weight of the scamp, mentally multiplied that weight by the square of the velocity and remained silent.
Jehan, master of the field of battle, pursued triumphantly:
"That's what I'll do, even if I am the brother of an archdeacon!"
"Fine gentry are our people of the university, not to have caused our privileges to be respected on such a day as this! However, there is a maypole and a bonfire in the town; a mystery, pope of the Fools, and Flemish ambassadors in the city; and, at the university, nothing!"
"Nevertheless, the place Maubert is sufficiently large!" interposed one of the clerks established on the window-sill.
"Down with the rector, the electors, and the procurators!" cried Joannes.
"We must have a bonfire this evening in the Champ-Gaillard," went on the other, "made of Master Andry's books."
"And the desks of the scribes!" added his neighbor.
"And the beadles' wands!"
"And the spittoons of the deans!"
"And the cupboards of the procurators!"
"And the hutches of the electors!"
"And the stools of the rector!"
"Down with them!" put in little Jehan, as counterpoint; "down with Master Andry, the beadles and the scribes; the theologians, the doctors and the decretists; the procurators, the electors and the rector!"
"The end of the world has come!,' muttered Master Andry, stopping up his ears.
"By the way, there's the rector! see, he is passing through the place," cried one of those in the window.
Each rivalled his neighbor in his haste to turn towards the place.
"Is it really our venerable rector, Master Thibaut?" demanded Jehan Frollo du Moulin, who, as he was clinging to one of the inner pillars, could not see what was going on outside.
"Yes, yes," replied all the others, "it is really he, Master Thibaut, the rector."
It was, in fact, the rector and all the dignitaries of the university, who were marching in procession in front of the embassy, and at that moment traversing the place.The students crowded into the window, saluted them as they passed with sarcasms and ironical applause.The rector, who was walking at the head of his company, had to support the first broadside; it was severe.
"Good day, monsieur le recteur!Hol¨¤ h¨¦! good day there!"
"How does he manage to be here, the old gambler?Has he abandoned his dice?"
"How he trots along on his mule! her ears are not so long as his!"
"Hol¨¤ h¨¦! good day, monsieur le recteur Thibaut!~Tybalde aleator~!Old fool! old gambler!"
"God preserve you!Did you throw double six often last night?"
"Oh! what a decrepit face, livid and haggard and drawn with the love of gambling and of dice!"
"Where are you bound for in that fashion, Thibaut, ~Tybalde ad dados~, with your back turned to the university, and trotting towards the town?"
"He is on his way, no doubt, to seek a lodging in the Rue Thibautod¨¦?"* cried Jehan du M. Moulin.
*~Thibaut au des~,--Thibaut of the dice.
The entire band repeated this quip in a voice of thunder, clapping their hands furiously.
"You are going to seek a lodging in the Rue Thibautod¨¦, are you not, monsieur le recteur, gamester on the side of the devil?"
Then came the turns of the other dignitaries.
"Down with the beadles! down with the mace-bearers!"
"Tell me, Robin pouissepain, who is that yonder?"
"He is Gilbert de Suilly, ~Gilbertus de Soliaco~, the chancellor of the College of Autun."
"Hold on, here's my shoe; you are better placed than I, fling it in his face."
"~Saturnalitias mittimus ecce nuces~."
"Down with the six theologians, with their white surplices!"
"Are those the theologians?I thought they were the white geese given by Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve to the city, for the fief of Roogny."
"Down with the doctors!"
"Down with the cardinal disputations, and quibblers!"
"My cap to you, Chancellor of Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve!You have done me a wrong.'Tis true; he gave my place in the nation of Normandy to little Ascanio Falzapada, who comes from the province of Bourges, since he is an Italian."
"That is an injustice," said all the scholars."Down with the Chancellor of Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve!"
"Ho h¨¦!Master Joachim de Ladehors!Ho h¨¦!Louis Dahuille!Ho he Lambert Hoctement!"
"May the devil stifle the procurator of the German nation!"
"And the chaplains of the Sainte-Chapelle, with their gray ~amices; cum tunices grisis~!"
"~Seu de pellibus grisis fourratis~!"
"Hol¨¤ h¨¦!Masters of Arts!All the beautiful black copes! all the fine red copes!"
"They make a fine tail for the rector."
"One would say that he was a Doge of Venice on his way to his bridal with the sea."
"Say, Jehan! here are the canons of Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve!"
"To the deuce with the whole set of canons!"
"Abb¨¦ Claude Choart!Doctor Claude Choart!Are you in search of Marie la Giffarde?"
"She is in the Rue de Glatigny."
"She is making the bed of the king of the debauchees." She is paying her four deniers* ~quatuor denarios~."
*An old French coin, equal to the two hundred and fortieth part of a pound.
"~Aut unum bombum~."
"Would you like to have her pay you in the face?"
"Comrades!Master Simon Sanguin, the Elector of picardy, with his wife on the crupper!"
"~post equitem seclet atra eura~--behind the horseman sits black care."
"Courage, Master Simon!"
"Good day, Mister Elector!"
"Good night, Madame Electress!"
"How happy they are to see all that!" sighed Joannes de Molendino, still perched in the foliage of his capital.
Meanwhile, the sworn bookseller of the university, Master Andry Musnier, was inclining his ear to the furrier of the king's robes, Master Gilles Lecornu.
"I tell you, sir, that the end of the world has come.No one has ever beheld such outbreaks among the students!It is the accursed inventions of this century that are ruining everything,--artilleries, bombards, and, above all, printing, that other German pest.No more manuscripts, no more books! printing will kill bookselling.It is the end of the world that is drawing nigh."
"I see that plainly, from the progress of velvet stuffs," said the fur-merchant.
At this moment, midday sounded.
"Ha!" exclaimed the entire crowd, in one voice.
The scholars held their peace.Then a great hurly-burly ensued; a vast movement of feet, hands, and heads; a general outbreak of coughs and handkerchiefs; each one arranged himself, assumed his post, raised himself up, and grouped himself.Then came a great silence; all necks remained outstretched, all mouths remained open, all glances were directed towards the marble table.Nothing made its appearance there.The bailiff's four sergeants were still there, stiff, motionless, as painted statues.All eyes turned to the estrade reserved for the Flemish envoys.The door remained closed, the platform empty.This crowd had been waiting since daybreak for three things: noonday, the embassy from Flanders, the mystery play.Noonday alone had arrived on time.
On this occasion, it was too much.
They waited one, two, three, five minutes, a quarter of an hour; nothing came.The dais remained empty, the theatre dumb.In the meantime, wrath had succeeded to impatience. Irritated words circulated in a low tone, still, it is true. "The mystery! the mystery!" they murmured, in hollow voices.Heads began to ferment.A tempest, which was only rumbling in the distance as yet, was floating on the surface of this crowd.It was Jehan du Moulin who struck the first spark from it.
"The mystery, and to the devil with the Flemings!" he exclaimed at the full force of his lungs, twining like a serpent around his pillar.
The crowd clapped their hands.
"The mystery!" it repeated, "and may all the devils take Flanders!"
"We must have the mystery instantly," resumed the student; "or else, my advice is that we should hang the bailiff of the courts, by way of a morality and a comedy."
"Well said," cried the people, "and let us begin the hanging with his sergeants."
A grand acclamation followed.The four poor fellows began to turn pale, and to exchange glances.The crowd hurled itself towards them, and they already beheld the frail wooden railing, which separated them from it, giving way and bending before the pressure of the throng.
It was a critical moment.
"To the sack, to the sack!" rose the cry on all sides.
At that moment, the tapestry of the dressing-room, which we have described above, was raised, and afforded passage to a personage, the mere sight of whom suddenly stopped the crowd, and changed its wrath into curiosity as by enchantment.
"Silence! silence!"
The personage, but little reassured, and trembling in every limb, advanced to the edge of the marble table with a vast amount of bows, which, in proportion as he drew nearer, more and more resembled genuflections.
In the meanwhile, tranquillity had gradually been restored. A1l that remained was that slight murmur which always rises above the silence of a crowd.
"Messieurs the bourgeois," said he, "and mesdemoiselles the ~bourgeoises~, we shall have the honor of declaiming and representing, before his eminence, monsieur the cardinal, a very beautiful morality which has for its title, 'The Good Judgment of Madame the Virgin Mary.'I am to play Jupiter. His eminence is, at this moment, escorting the very honorable embassy of the Duke of Austria; which is detained, at present, listening to the harangue of monsieur the rector of the university, at the gate Baudets.As soon as his illustrious eminence, the cardinal, arrives, we will begin."
It is certain, that nothing less than the intervention of Jupiter was required to save the four unfortunate sergeants of the bailiff of the courts.If we had the happiness of having invented this very veracious tale, and of being, in consequence, responsible for it before our Lady Criticism, it is not against us that the classic precept, ~Nec deus intersit~, could be invoked. Moreover, the costume of Seigneur Jupiter, was very handsome, and contributed not a little towards calming the crowd, by attracting all its attention.Jupiter was clad in a coat of mail, covered with black velvet, with gilt nails; and had it not been for the rouge, and the huge red beard, each of which covered one-half of his face,--had it not been for the roll of gilded cardboard, spangled, and all bristling with strips of tinsel, which he held in his hand, and in which the eyes of the initiated easily recognized thunderbolts,--had not his feet been flesh-colored, and banded with ribbons in Greek fashion, he might have borne comparison, so far as the severity of his mien was concerned, with a Breton archer from the guard of Monsieur de Berry.

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¡¶BOOK SECOND CHAPTER III.KISSES FOR BLOWS.¡·
When pierre Gringoire arrived on the place de Gr¨¨ve, he was paralyzed.He had directed his course across the pont aux Meuniers, in order to avoid the rabble on the pont au Change, and the pennons of Jehan Fourbault; but the wheels of all the bishop's mills had splashed him as he passed, and his doublet was drenched; it seemed to him besides, that the failure of his piece had rendered him still more sensible to cold than usual.Hence he made haste to draw near the bonfire, which was burning magnificently in the middle of the place.But a considerable crowd formed a circle around it.
"Accursed parisians!" he said to himself (for Gringoire, like a true dramatic poet, was subject to monologues) "there they are obstructing my fire!Nevertheless, I am greatly in need of a chimney corner; my shoes drink in the water, and all those cursed mills wept upon me!That devil of a Bishop of paris, with his mills!I'd just like to know what use a bishop can make of a mill!Does he expect to become a miller instead of a bishop?If only my malediction is needed for that, I bestow it upon him! and his cathedral, and his mills!Just see if those boobies will put themselves out! Move aside!I'd like to know what they are doing there! They are warming themselves, much pleasure may it give them!They are watching a hundred fagots burn; a fine spectacle!"
On looking more closely, he perceived that the circle was much larger than was required simply for the purpose of getting warm at the king's fire, and that this concourse of people had not been attracted solely by the beauty of the hundred fagots which were burning.
In a vast space left free between the crowd and the fire, a young girl was dancing.
Whether this young girl was a human being, a fairy, or an angel, is what Gringoire, sceptical philosopher and ironical poet that he was, could not decide at the first moment, so fascinated was he by this dazzling vision.
She was not tall, though she seemed so, so boldly did her slender form dart about.She was swarthy of complexion, but one divined that, by day, her skin must possess that beautiful golden tone of the Andalusians and the Roman women.Her little foot, too, was Andalusian, for it was both pinched and at ease in its graceful shoe.She danced, she turned, she whirled rapidly about on an old persian rug, spread negligently under her feet; and each time that her radiant face passed before you, as she whirled, her great black eyes darted a flash of lightning at you.
All around her, all glances were riveted, all mouths open; and, in fact, when she danced thus, to the humming of the Basque tambourine, which her two pure, rounded arms raised above her head, slender, frail and vivacious as a wasp, with her corsage of gold without a fold, her variegated gown puffing out, her bare shoulders, her delicate limbs, which her petticoat revealed at times, her black hair, her eyes of flame, she was a supernatural creature.
"In truth," said Gringoire to himself, "she is a salamander, she is a nymph, she is a goddess, she is a bacchante of the Menelean Mount!"
At that moment, one of the salamander's braids of hair became unfastened, and a piece of yellow copper which was attached to it, rolled to the ground.
"H¨¦, no!" said he, "she is a gypsy!"
All illusions had disappeared.
She began her dance once more; she took from the ground two swords, whose points she rested against her brow, and which she made to turn in one direction, while she turned in the other; it was a purely gypsy effect.But, disenchanted though Gringoire was, the whole effect of this picture was not without its charm and its magic; the bonfire illuminated, with a red flaring light, which trembled, all alive, over the circle of faces in the crowd, on the brow of the young girl, and at the background of the place cast a pallid reflection, on one side upon the ancient, black, and wrinkled fa?ade of the House of pillars, on the other, upon the old stone gibbet.
Among the thousands of visages which that light tinged with scarlet, there was one which seemed, even more than all the others, absorbed in contemplation of the dancer.It was the face of a man, austere, calm, and sombre.This man, whose costume was concealed by the crowd which surrounded him, did not appear to be more than five and thirty years of age; nevertheless, he was bald; he had merely a few tufts of thin, gray hair on his temples; his broad, high forehead had begun to be furrowed with wrinkles, but his deep-set eyes sparkled with extraordinary youthfulness, an ardent life, a profound passion.He kept them fixed incessantly on the gypsy, and, while the giddy young girl of sixteen danced and whirled, for the pleasure of all, his revery seemed to become more and more sombre.From time to time, a smile and a sigh met upon his lips, but the smile was more melancholy than the sigh.
The young girl, stopped at length, breathless, and the people applauded her lovingly.
"Djali!" said the gypsy.
Then Gringoire saw come up to her, a pretty little white goat, alert, wide-awake, glossy, with gilded horns, gilded hoofs, and gilded collar, which he had not hitherto perceived, and which had remained lying curled up on one corner of the carpet watching his mistress dance.
"Djali!" said the dancer, "it is your turn."
And, seating herself, she gracefully presented her tambourine to the goat.
"Djali," she continued, "what month is this?"
The goat lifted its fore foot, and struck one blow upon the tambourine.It was the first month in the year, in fact.
"Djali," pursued the young girl, turning her tambourine round, "what day of the month is this?"
Djali raised his little gilt hoof, and struck six blows on the tambourine.
"Djali," pursued the Egyptian, with still another movement of the tambourine, "what hour of the day is it?"
Djali struck seven blows.At that moment, the clock of the pillar House rang out seven.
The people were amazed.
"There's sorcery at the bottom of it," said a sinister voice in the crowd.It was that of the bald man, who never removed his eyes from the gypsy.
She shuddered and turned round; but applause broke forth and drowned the morose exclamation.
It even effaced it so completely from her mind, that she continued to question her goat.
"Djali, what does Master Guichard Grand-Remy, captain of the pistoliers of the town do, at the procession of Candlemas?"
Djali reared himself on his hind legs, and began to bleat, marching along with so much dainty gravity, that the entire circle of spectators burst into a laugh at this parody of the interested devoutness of the captain of pistoliers.
"Djali," resumed the young girl, emboldened by her growing success, "how preaches Master Jacques Charmolue, procurator to the king in the ecclesiastical court?"
The goat seated himself on his hind quarters, and began to bleat, waving his fore feet in so strange a manner, that, with the exception of the bad French, and worse Latin, Jacques Charmolue was there complete,--gesture, accent, and attitude.
And the crowd applauded louder than ever.
"Sacrilege! profanation!" resumed the voice of the bald man.
The gypsy turned round once more.
"Ah!" said she, "'tis that villanous man!" Then, thrusting her under lip out beyond the upper, she made a little pout, which appeared to be familiar to her, executed a pirouette on her heel, and set about collecting in her tambourine the gifts of the multitude.
Big blanks, little blanks, targes* and eagle liards showered into it.
*A blank: an old French coin; six blanks were worth two sous and a half; targe, an ancient coin of Burgundy, a farthing.
All at once, she passed in front of Gringoire.Gringoire put his hand so recklessly into his pocket that she halted. "The devil!" said the poet, finding at the bottom of his pocket the reality, that is, to say, a void.In the meantime, the pretty girl stood there, gazing at him with her big eyes, and holding out her tambourine to him and waiting.Gringoire broke into a violent perspiration.
If he had all peru in his pocket, he would certainly have given it to the dancer; but Gringoire had not peru, and, moreover, America had not yet been discovered.
Happily, an unexpected incident came to his rescue.
"Will you take yourself off, you Egyptian grasshopper?" cried a sharp voice, which proceeded from the darkest corner of the place.
The young girl turned round in affright.It was no longer the voice of the bald man; it was the voice of a woman, bigoted and malicious.
However, this cry, which alarmed the gypsy, delighted a troop of children who were prowling about there.
"It is the recluse of the Tour-Roland," they exclaimed, with wild laughter, "it is the sacked nun who is scolding! Hasn't she supped?Let's carry her the remains of the city refreshments!"
All rushed towards the pillar House.
In the meanwhile, Gringoire had taken advantage of the dancer's embarrassment, to disappear.The children's shouts had reminded him that he, also, had not supped, so he ran to the public buffet.But the little rascals had better legs than he; when he arrived, they had stripped the table.There remained not so much as a miserable ~camichon~ at five sous the pound.Nothing remained upon the wall but slender fleurs-de-lis, mingled with rose bushes, painted in 1434 by Mathieu Biterne.It was a meagre supper.
It is an unpleasant thing to go to bed without supper, it is a still less pleasant thing not to sup and not to know where one is to sleep.That was Gringoire's condition.No supper, no shelter; he saw himself pressed on all sides by necessity, and he found necessity very crabbed.He had long ago discovered the truth, that Jupiter created men during a fit of misanthropy, and that during a wise man's whole life, his destiny holds his philosophy in a state of siege.As for himself, he had never seen the blockade so complete; he heard his stomach sounding a parley, and he considered it very much out of place that evil destiny should capture his philosophy by famine.
This melancholy revery was absorbing him more and more, when a song, quaint but full of sweetness, suddenly tore him from it.It was the young gypsy who was singing.
Her voice was like her dancing, like her beauty.It was indefinable and charming; something pure and sonorous, aerial, winged, so to speak.There were continual outbursts, melodies, unexpected cadences, then simple phrases strewn with aerial and hissing notes; then floods of scales which would have put a nightingale to rout, but in which harmony was always present; then soft modulations of octaves which rose and fell, like the bosom of the young singer.Her beautiful face followed, with singular mobility, all the caprices of her song, from the wildest inspiration to the chastest dignity. One would have pronounced her now a mad creature, now a queen.
The words which she sang were in a tongue unknown to Gringoire, and which seemed to him to be unknown to herself, so little relation did the expression which she imparted to her song bear to the sense of the words.Thus, these four lines, in her mouth, were madly gay,--
~Un cofre de gran riqueza Hallaron dentro un pilar, Dentro del, nuevas banderas Con figuras de espantar~.*
*A coffer of great richness In a pillar's heart they found, Within it lay new banners, With figures to astound.
And an instant afterwards, at the accents which she imparted to this stanza,--
~Alarabes de cavallo Sin poderse menear, Con espadas, y los cuellos, Ballestas de buen echar~,
Gringoire felt the tears start to his eyes.Nevertheless, her song breathed joy, most of all, and she seemed to sing like a bird, from serenity and heedlessness.
The gypsy's song had disturbed Gringoire's revery as the swan disturbs the water.He listened in a sort of rapture, and forgetfulness of everything.It was the first moment in the course of many hours when he did not feel that he suffered.
The moment was brief.
The same woman's voice, which had interrupted the gypsy's dance, interrupted her song.
"Will you hold your tongue, you cricket of hell?" it cried, still from the same obscure corner of the place.
The poor "cricket" stopped short.Gringoire covered up his ears.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "accursed saw with missing teeth, which comes to break the lyre!"
Meanwhile, the other spectators murmured like himself; "To the devil with the sacked nun!" said some of them. And the old invisible kill-joy might have had occasion to repent of her aggressions against the gypsy had their attention not been diverted at this moment by the procession of the pope of the Fools, which, after having traversed many streets and squares, debouched on the place de Gr¨¨ve, with all its torches and all its uproar.
This procession, which our readers have seen set out from the palais de Justice, had organized on the way, and had been recruited by all the knaves, idle thieves, and unemployed vagabonds in paris; so that it presented a very respectable aspect when it arrived at the Gr¨¨ve.
First came Egypt.The Duke of Egypt headed it, on horseback, with his counts on foot holding his bridle and stirrups for him; behind them, the male and female Egyptians, pell-mell, with their little children crying on their shoulders; all--duke, counts, and populace--in rags and tatters.Then came the Kingdom of Argot; that is to say, all the thieves of France, arranged according to the order of their dignity; the minor people walking first.Thus defiled by fours, with the divers insignia of their grades, in that strange faculty, most of them lame, some cripples, others one-armed, shop clerks, pilgrim, ~hubins~, bootblacks, thimble-riggers, street arabs, beggars, the blear-eyed beggars, thieves, the weakly, vagabonds, merchants, sham soldiers, goldsmiths, passed masters of pickpockets, isolated thieves.A catalogue that would weary Homer.In the centre of the conclave of the passed masters of pickpockets, one had some difficulty in distinguishing the King of Argot, the grand co?sre, so called, crouching in a little cart drawn by two big dogs.After the kingdom of the Argotiers, came the Empire of Galilee.Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of the Empire of Galilee, marched majestically in his robe of purple, spotted with wine, preceded by buffoons wrestling and executing military dances; surrounded by his macebearers, his pickpockets and clerks of the chamber of accounts.Last of all came the corporation of law clerks, with its maypoles crowned with flowers, its black robes, its music worthy of the orgy, and its large candles of yellow wax.In the centre of this crowd, the grand officers of the Brotherhood of Fools bore on their shoulders a litter more loaded down with candles than the reliquary of Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve in time of pest; and on this litter shone resplendent, with crosier, cope, and mitre, the new pope of the Fools, the bellringer of Notre-Dame, Quasimodo the hunchback.
Each section of this grotesque procession had its own music. The Egyptians made their drums and African tambourines resound.The slang men, not a very musical race, still clung to the goat's horn trumpet and the Gothic rubebbe of the twelfth century.The Empire of Galilee was not much more advanced; among its music one could hardly distinguish some miserable rebec, from the infancy of the art, still imprisoned in the ~re-la-mi~.But it was around the pope of the Fools that all the musical riches of the epoch were displayed in a magnificent discord.It was nothing but soprano rebecs, counter-tenor rebecs, and tenor rebecs, not to reckon the flutes and brass instruments.Alas! our readers will remember that this was Gringoire's orchestra.
It is difficult to convey an idea of the degree of proud and blissful expansion to which the sad and hideous visage of Quasimodo had attained during the transit from the palais de Justice, to the place de Gr¨¨ve.It was the first enjoyment of self-love that he had ever experienced.Down to that day, he had known only humiliation, disdain for his condition, disgust for his person.Hence, deaf though he was, he enjoyed, like a veritable pope, the acclamations of that throng, which he hated because he felt that he was hated by it.What mattered it that his people consisted of a pack of fools, cripples, thieves, and beggars? it was still a people and he was its sovereign.And he accepted seriously all this ironical applause, all this derisive respect, with which the crowd mingled, it must be admitted, a good deal of very real fear.For the hunchback was robust; for the bandy-legged fellow was agile; for the deaf man was malicious: three qualities which temper ridicule.
We are far from believing, however, that the new pope of the Fools understood both the sentiments which he felt and the sentiments which he inspired.The spirit which was lodged in this failure of a body had, necessarily, something incomplete and deaf about it.Thus, what he felt at the moment was to him, absolutely vague, indistinct, and confused. Only joy made itself felt, only pride dominated.Around that sombre and unhappy face, there hung a radiance.
It was, then, not without surprise and alarm, that at the very moment when Quasimodo was passing the pillar House, in that semi-intoxicated state, a man was seen to dart from the crowd, and to tear from his hands, with a gesture of anger, his crosier of gilded wood, the emblem of his mock popeship.
This man, this rash individual, was the man with the bald brow, who, a moment earlier, standing with the gypsy's group had chilled the poor girl with his words of menace and of hatred.He was dressed in an eccleslastical costume.At the moment when he stood forth from the crowd, Gringoire, who had not noticed him up to that time, recognized him: "Hold!" he said, with an exclamation of astonishment. "Eh! 'tis my master in Hermes, Dom Claude Frollo, the archdeacon!What the devil does he want of that old one- eyed fellow?He'll get himself devoured!"
A cry of terror arose, in fact.The formidable Quasimodo had hurled himself from the litter, and the women turned aside their eyes in order not to see him tear the archdeacon asunder.
He made one bound as far as the priest, looked at him, and fell upon his knees.
The priest tore off his tiara, broke his crozier, and rent his tinsel cope.
Quasimodo remained on his knees, with head bent and hands clasped.Then there was established between them a strange dialogue of signs and gestures, for neither of them spoke. The priest, erect on his feet, irritated, threatening, imperious; Quasimodo, prostrate, humble, suppliant.And, nevertheless, it is certain that Quasimodo could have crushed the priest with his thumb.
At length the archdeacon, giving Quasimodo's powerful shoulder a rough shake, made him a sign to rise and follow him.
Quasimodo rose.
Then the Brotherhood of Fools, their first stupor having passed off, wished to defend their pope, so abruptly dethroned. The Egyptians, the men of slang, and all the fraternity of law clerks, gathered howling round the priest.
Quasimodo placed himself in front of the priest, set in play the muscles of his athletic fists, and glared upon the assailants with the snarl of an angry tiger.
The priest resumed his sombre gravity, made a sign to Quasimodo, and retired in silence.
Quasimodo walked in front of him, scattering the crowd as he passed.
When they had traversed the populace and the place, the cloud of curious and idle were minded to follow them.Quasimodo then constituted himself the rearguard, and followed the archdeacon, walking backwards, squat, surly, monstrous, bristling, gathering up his limbs, licking his boar's tusks, growling like a wild beast, and imparting to the crowd immense vibrations, with a look or a gesture.
Both were allowed to plunge into a dark and narrow street, where no one dared to venture after them; so thoroughly did the mere chimera of Quasimodo gnashing his teeth bar the entrance.
"Here's a marvellous thing," said Gringoire; "but where the deuce shall I find some supper?"

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¡¶BOOK SECOND CHAPTER VI.THE BROKEN JUG. Page 1¡·
After having run for some time at the top of his speed, without knowing whither, knocking his head against many a street corner, leaping many a gutter, traversing many an alley, many a court, many a square, seeking flight and passage through all the meanderings of the ancient passages of the Halles, exploring in his panic terror what the fine Latin of the maps calls ~tota via, cheminum et viaria~, our poet suddenly halted for lack of breath in the first place, and in the second, because he had been collared, after a fashion, by a dilemma which had just occurred to his mind."It strikes me, Master pierre Gringoire," he said to himself, placing his finger to his brow, "that you are running like a madman.The little scamps are no less afraid of you than you are of them.It strikes me, I say, that you heard the clatter of their wooden shoes fleeing southward, while you were fleeing northward.Now, one of two things, either they have taken flight, and the pallet, which they must have forgotten in their terror, is precisely that hospitable bed in search of which you have been running ever since morning, and which madame the Virgin miraculously sends you, in order to recompense you for having made a morality in her honor, accompanied by triumphs and mummeries; or the children have not taken flight, and in that case they have put the brand to the pallet, and that is precisely the good fire which you need to cheer, dry, and warm you.In either case, good fire or good bed, that straw pallet is a gift from heaven.The blessed Virgin Marie who stands at the corner of the Rue Mauconseil, could only have made Eustache Moubon die for that express purpose; and it is folly on your part to flee thus zigzag, like a picard before a Frenchman, leaving behind you what you seek before you; and you are a fool!"
Then he retraced his steps, and feeling his way and searching, with his nose to the wind and his ears on the alert, he tried to find the blessed pallet again, but in vain.There was nothing to be found but intersections of houses, closed courts, and crossings of streets, in the midst of which he hesitated and doubted incessantly, being more perplexed and entangled in this medley of streets than he would have been even in the labyrinth of the H?tel des Tournelles.At length he lost patience, and exclaimed solemnly: "Cursed be cross roads! 'tis the devil who has made them in the shape of his pitchfork!"
This exclamation afforded him a little solace, and a sort of reddish reflection which he caught sight of at that moment, at the extremity of a long and narrow lane, completed the elevation of his moral tone."God be praised!" said he, "There it is yonder!There is my pallet burning."And comparing himself to the pilot who suffers shipwreck by night, "~Salve~," he added piously, "~salve, maris stella~!"
Did he address this fragment of litany to the Holy Virgin, or to the pallet?We are utterly unable to say.
He had taken but a few steps in the long street, which sloped downwards, was unpaved, and more and more muddy and steep, when he noticed a very singular thing.It was not deserted; here and there along its extent crawled certain vague and formless masses, all directing their course towards the light which flickered at the end of the street, like those heavy insects which drag along by night, from blade to blade of grass, towards the shepherd's fire.
Nothing renders one so adventurous as not being able to feel the place where one's pocket is situated.Gringoire continued to advance, and had soon joined that one of the forms which dragged along most indolently, behind the others.On drawing near, he perceived that it was nothing else than a wretched legless cripple in a bowl, who was hopping along on his two hands like a wounded field-spider which has but two legs left.At the moment when he passed close to this species of spider with a human countenance, it raised towards him a lamentable voice: "~La buona mancia, signor! la buona mancia~!"*
*Alms.
"Deuce take you," said Gringoire, "and me with you, if I know what you mean!"
And he passed on.
He overtook another of these itinerant masses, and examined it.It was an impotent man, both halt and crippled, and halt and crippled to such a degree that the complicated system of crutches and wooden legs which sustained him, gave him the air of a mason's scaffolding on the march.Gringoire, who liked noble and classical comparisons, compared him in thought to the living tripod of Vulcan.
This living tripod saluted him as he passed, but stopping his hat on a level with Gringoire's chin, like a shaving dish, while he shouted in the latter's ears: "~Senor cabellero, para comprar un pedaso de pan~!"*
*Give me the means to buy a bit of bread, sir.
"It appears," said Gringoire, "that this one can also talk; but 'tis a rude language, and he is more fortunate than I if he understands it." Then, smiting his brow, in a sudden transition of ideas: "By the way, what the deuce did they mean this morning with their Esmeralda?"
He was minded to augment his pace, but for the third time something barred his way.This something or, rather, some one was a blind man, a little blind fellow with a bearded, Jewish face, who, rowing away in the space about him with a stick, and towed by a large dog, droned through his nose with a Hungarian accent: "~Facitote caritatem~!"
"Well, now," said Gringoire, "here's one at last who speaks a Christian tongue.I must have a very charitable aspect, since they ask alms of me in the present lean condition of my purse.My friend," and he turned towards the blind man, "I sold my last shirt last week; that is to say, since you understand only the language of Cicero: ~Vendidi hebdomade nuper transita meam ultimam chemisan~."
That said, he turned his back upon the blind man, and pursued his way.But the blind man began to increase his stride at the same time; and, behold! the cripple and the legless man, in his bowl, came up on their side in great haste, and with great clamor of bowl and crutches, upon the pavement. Then all three, jostling each other at poor Gringoire's heels, began to sing their song to him,--
"~Caritatem~!" chanted the blind man.
"~La buona mancia~!" chanted the cripple in the bowl.
And the lame man took up the musical phrase by repeating: "~Un pedaso de pan~!"
Gringoire stopped up his ears."Oh, tower of Babel!" he exclaimed.
He set out to run.The blind man ran!The lame man ran!The cripple in the bowl ran!
And then, in proportion as he plunged deeper into the street, cripples in bowls, blind men and lame men, swarmed about him, and men with one arm, and with one eye, and the leprous with their sores, some emerging from little streets adjacent, some from the air-holes of cellars, howling, bellowing, yelping, all limping and halting, all flinging themselves towards the light, and humped up in the mire, like snails after a shower.
Gringoire, still followed by his three persecutors, and not knowing very well what was to become of him, marched along in terror among them, turning out for the lame, stepping over the cripples in bowls, with his feet imbedded in that ant-hill of lame men, like the English captain who got caught in the quicksand of a swarm of crabs.
The idea occurred to him of making an effort to retrace his steps.But it was too late.This whole legion had closed in behind him, and his three beggars held him fast.So he proceeded, impelled both by this irresistible flood, by fear, and by a vertigo which converted all this into a sort of horrible dream.
At last he reached the end of the street.It opened upon an immense place, where a thousand scattered lights flickered in the confused mists of night.Gringoire flew thither, hoping to escape, by the swiftness of his legs, from the three infirm spectres who had clutched him.
"~Onde vas, hombre~?" (Where are you going, my man?) cried the cripple, flinging away his crutches, and running after him with the best legs that ever traced a geometrical step upon the pavements of paris.
In the meantime the legless man, erect upon his feet, crowned Gringoire with his heavy iron bowl, and the blind man glared in his face with flaming eyes!
"Where am I?" said the terrified poet.
"In the Court of Miracles," replied a fourth spectre, who had accosted them.
"Upon my soul," resumed Gringoire, "I certainly do behold the blind who see, and the lame who walk, but where is the Saviour?"
They replied by a burst of sinister laughter.
The poor poet cast his eyes about him.It was, in truth, that redoubtable Cour des Miracles, whither an honest man had never penetrated at such an hour; the magic circle where the officers of the Chatelet and the sergeants of the provostship, who ventured thither, disappeared in morsels; a city of thieves, a hideous wart on the face of paris; a sewer, from which escaped every morning, and whither returned every night to crouch, that stream of vices, of mendicancy and vagabondage which always overflows in the streets of capitals; a monstrous hive, to which returned at nightfall, with their booty, all the drones of the social order; a lying hospital where the bohemian, the disfrocked monk, the ruined scholar, the ne'er-do-wells of all nations, Spaniards, Italians, Germans,--of all religions, Jews, Christians, Mahometans, idolaters, covered with painted sores, beggars by day, were transformed by night into brigands; an immense dressing-room, in a word, where, at that epoch, the actors of that eternal comedy, which theft, prostitution, and murder play upon the pavements of paris, dressed and undressed.
It was a vast place, irregular and badly paved, like all the squares of paris at that date.Fires, around which swarmed strange groups, blazed here and there.Every one was going, coming, and shouting.Shrill laughter was to be heard, the wailing of children, the voices of women.The hands and heads of this throng, black against the luminous background, outlined against it a thousand eccentric gestures.At times, upon the ground, where trembled the light of the fires, mingled with large, indefinite shadows, one could behold a dog passing, which resembled a man, a man who resembled a dog. The limits of races and species seemed effaced in this city, as in a pandemonium.Men, women, beasts, age, sex, health, maladies, all seemed to be in common among these people; all went together, they mingled, confounded, superposed; each one there participated in all.
The poor and flickering flames of the fire permitted Gringoire to distinguish, amid his trouble, all around the immense place, a hideous frame of ancient houses, whose wormeaten, shrivelled, stunted fa?ades, each pierced with one or two lighted attic windows, seemed to him, in the darkness, like enormous heads of old women, ranged in a circle, monstrous and crabbed, winking as they looked on at the Witches' Sabbath.
It was like a new world, unknown, unheard of, misshapen, creeping, swarming, fantastic.
Gringoire, more and more terrified, clutched by the three beggars as by three pairs of tongs, dazed by a throng of other faces which frothed and yelped around him, unhappy Gringoire endeavored to summon his presence of mind, in order to recall whether it was a Saturday.But his efforts were vain; the thread of his memory and of his thought was broken; and, doubting everything, wavering between what he saw and what he felt, he put to himself this unanswerable question,--
"If I exist, does this exist? if this exists, do I exist?"
At that moment, a distinct cry arose in the buzzing throng which surrounded him, "Let's take him to the king! let's take him to the king!"
"Holy Virgin!" murmured Gringoire, "the king here must be a ram."
"To the king! to the king!" repeated all voices.
They dragged him off.Each vied with the other in laying his claws upon him.But the three beggars did not loose their hold and tore him from the rest, howling, "He belongs to us!"
The poet's already sickly doublet yielded its last sigh in this struggle.
While traversing the horrible place, his vertigo vanished. After taking a few steps, the sentiment of reality returned to him.He began to become accustomed to the atmosphere of the place.At the first moment there had arisen from his poet's head, or, simply and prosaically, from his empty stomach, a mist, a vapor, so to speak, which, spreading between objects and himself, permitted him to catch a glimpse of them only in the incoherent fog of nightmare,--in those shadows of dreams which distort every outline, agglomerating objects into unwieldy groups, dilating things into chimeras, and men into phantoms.Little by little, this hallucination was succeeded by a less bewildered and exaggerating view. Reality made its way to the light around him, struck his eyes, struck his feet, and demolished, bit by bit, all that frightful poetry with which he had, at first, believed himself to be surrounded.He was forced to perceive that he was not walking in the Styx, but in mud, that he was elbowed not by demons, but by thieves; that it was not his soul which was in question, but his life (since he lacked that precious conciliator, which places itself so effectually between the bandit and the honest man--a purse).In short, on examining the orgy more closely, and with more coolness, he fell from the witches' sabbath to the dram-shop.
The Cour des Miracles was, in fact, merely a dram-shop; but a brigand's dram-shop, reddened quite as much with blood as with wine.
The spectacle which presented itself to his eyes, when his ragged escort finally deposited him at the end of his trip, was not fitted to bear him back to poetry, even to the poetry of hell.It was more than ever the prosaic and brutal reality of the tavern.Were we not in the fifteenth century, we would say that Gringoire had descended from Michael Angelo to Callot.
Around a great fire which burned on a large, circular flagstone, the flames of which had heated red-hot the legs of a tripod, which was empty for the moment, some wormeaten tables were placed, here and there, haphazard, no lackey of a geometrical turn having deigned to adjust their parallelism, or to see to it that they did not make too unusual angles. Upon these tables gleamed several dripping pots of wine and beer, and round these pots were grouped many bacchic visages, purple with the fire and the wine.There was a man with a huge belly and a jovial face, noisily kissing a woman of the town, thickset and brawny.There was a sort of sham soldier, a "naquois," as the slang expression runs, who was whistling as he undid the bandages from his fictitious wound, and removing the numbness from his sound and vigorous knee, which had been swathed since morning in a thousand ligatures.On the other hand, there was a wretched fellow, preparing with celandine and beef's blood, his "leg of God," for the next day.Two tables further on, a palmer, with his pilgrim's costume complete, was practising the lament of the Holy Queen, not forgetting the drone and the nasal drawl. Further on, a young scamp was taking a lesson in epilepsy from an old pretender, who was instructing him in the art of foaming at the mouth, by chewing a morsel of soap.Beside him, a man with the dropsy was getting rid of his swelling, and making four or five female thieves, who were disputing at the same table, over a child who had been stolen that evening, hold their noses.All circumstances which, two centuries later, "seemed so ridiculous to the court," as Sauval says, "that they served as a pastime to the king, and as an introduction to the royal ballet of Night, divided into four parts and danced on the theatre of the petit-Bourbon.""Never," adds an eye witness of 1653, "have the sudden metamorphoses of the Court of Miracles been more happily presented. Benserade prepared us for it by some very gallant verses."
Loud laughter everywhere, and obscene songs.Each one held his own course, carping and swearing, without listening to his neighbor.pots clinked, and quarrels sprang up at the shock of the pots, and the broken pots made rents in the rags.
A big dog, seated on his tail, gazed at the fire.Some children were mingled in this orgy.The stolen child wept and cried.Another, a big boy four years of age, seated with legs dangling, upon a bench that was too high for him, before a table that reached to his chin, and uttering not a word.A third, gravely spreading out upon the table with his finger, the melted tallow which dripped from a candle.Last of all, a little fellow crouching in the mud, almost lost in a cauldron, which he was scraping with a tile, and from which he was evoking a sound that would have made Stradivarius swoon.
Near the fire was a hogshead, and on the hogshead a beggar. This was the king on his throne.
The three who had Gringoire in their clutches led him in front of this hogshead, and the entire bacchanal rout fell silent for a moment, with the exception of the cauldron inhabited by the child.
Gringoire dared neither breathe nor raise his eyes.
"~Hombre, quita tu sombrero~!" said one of the three knaves, in whose grasp he was, and, before he had comprehended the meaning, the other had snatched his hat--a wretched headgear, it is true, but still good on a sunny day or when there was but little rain.Gringoire sighed.
Meanwhile the king addressed him, from the summit of his cask,--
"Who is this rogue?"
Gringoire shuddered.That voice, although accentuated by menace, recalled to him another voice, which, that very morning, had dealt the deathblow to his mystery, by drawling, nasally, in the midst of the audience, "Charity, please!" He raised his head.It was indeed Clopin Trouillefou.
Clopin Trouillefou, arrayed in his royal insignia, wore neither one rag more nor one rag less.The sore upon his arm had already disappeared.He held in his hand one of those whips made of thongs of white leather, which police sergeants then used to repress the crowd, and which were called ~boullayes~.On his head he wore a sort of headgear, bound round and closed at the top.But it was difficult to make out whether it was a child's cap or a king's crown, the two things bore so strong a resemblance to each other.
Meanwhile Gringoire, without knowing why, had regained some hope, on recognizing in the King of the Cour des Miracles his accursed mendicant of the Grand Hall.
"Master," stammered he; "monseigneur--sire--how ought I to address you?" he said at length, having reached the culminating point of his crescendo, and knowing neither how to mount higher, nor to descend again.
"Monseigneur, his majesty, or comrade, call me what you please.But make haste.What have you to say in your own defence?"
"In your own defence?" thought Gringoire, "that displeases me."He resumed, stuttering, "I am he, who this morning--"
"By the devil's claws!" interrupted Clopin, "your name, knave, and nothing more.Listen.You are in the presence of three powerful sovereigns: myself, Clopin Trouillefou, King of Thunes, successor to the Grand Co?sre, supreme suzerain of the Realm of Argot; Mathias Hunyadi Spicali, Duke of Egypt and of Bohemia, the old yellow fellow whom you see yonder, with a dish clout round his head; Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of Galilee, that fat fellow who is not listening to us but caressing a wench.We are your judges. You have entered the Kingdom of Argot, without being an ~argotier~; you have violated the privileges of our city.You must be punished unless you are a ~capon~, a ~franc-mitou~ or a ~rifod¨¦~; that is to say, in the slang of honest folks,--a thief, a beggar, or a vagabond.Are you anything of that sort? Justify yourself; announce your titles."

¡¶BOOK SECOND CHAPTER VI.THE BROKEN JUG. Page 2¡·
"Alas!" said Gringoire, "I have not that honor.I am the author--"
"That is sufficient," resumed Trouillefou, without permitting him to finish."You are going to be hanged.'Tis a very simple matter, gentlemen and honest bourgeois! as you treat our people in your abode, so we treat you in ours!The law which you apply to vagabonds, vagabonds apply to you. 'Tis your fault if it is harsh.One really must behold the grimace of an honest man above the hempen collar now and then; that renders the thing honorable.Come, friend, divide your rags gayly among these damsels.I am going to have you hanged to amuse the vagabonds, and you are to give them your purse to drink your health.If you have any mummery to go through with, there's a very good God the Father in that mortar yonder, in stone, which we stole from Saint-pierre aux Boeufs.You have four minutes in which to fling your soul at his head."
The harangue was formidable.
"Well said, upon my soul!Clopin Trouillefou preaches like the Holy Father the pope!" exclaimed the Emperor of Galilee, smashing his pot in order to prop up his table.
"Messeigneurs, emperors, and kings," said Gringoire coolly (for I know not how, firmness had returned to him, and he spoke with resolution), "don't think of such a thing; my name is pierre Gringoire.I am the poet whose morality was presented this morning in the grand hall of the Courts."
"Ah! so it was you, master!" said Clopin."I was there, ~x¨ºte Dieu~!Well! comrade, is that any reason, because you bored us to death this morning, that you should not be hung this evening?"
"I shall find difficulty in getting out of it," said Gringoire to himself.Nevertheless, he made one more effort: "I don't see why poets are not classed with vagabonds," said he. "Vagabond, Aesopus certainly was; Homerus was a beggar; Mercurius was a thief--"
Clopin interrupted him: "I believe that you are trying to blarney us with your jargon.Zounds! let yourself be hung, and don't kick up such a row over it!"
"pardon me, monseigneur, the King of Thunes," replied Gringoire, disputing the ground foot by foot."It is worth trouble--One moment!--Listen to me--You are not going to condemn me without having heard me"--
His unlucky voice was, in fact, drowned in the uproar which rose around him.The little boy scraped away at his cauldron with more spirit than ever; and, to crown all, an old woman had just placed on the tripod a frying-pan of grease, which hissed away on the fire with a noise similar to the cry of a troop of children in pursuit of a masker.
In the meantime, Clopin Trouillefou appeared to hold a momentary conference with the Duke of Egypt, and the Emperor of Galilee, who was completely drunk.Then he shouted shrilly: "Silence!" and, as the cauldron and the frying-pan did not heed him, and continued their duet, he jumped down from his hogshead, gave a kick to the boiler, which rolled ten paces away bearing the child with it, a kick to the frying-pan, which upset in the fire with all its grease, and gravely remounted his throne, without troubling himself about the stifled tears of the child, or the grumbling of the old woman, whose supper was wasting away in a fine white flame.
Trouillefou made a sign, and the duke, the emperor, and the passed masters of pickpockets, and the isolated robbers, came and ranged themselves around him in a horseshoe, of which Gringoire, still roughly held by the body, formed the centre.It was a semicircle of rags, tatters, tinsel, pitchforks, axes, legs staggering with intoxication, huge, bare arms, faces sordid, dull, and stupid.In the midst of this Round Table of beggary, Clopin Trouillefou,--as the doge of this senate, as the king of this peerage, as the pope of this conclave,-- dominated; first by virtue of the height of his hogshead, and next by virtue of an indescribable, haughty, fierce, and formidable air, which caused his eyes to flash, and corrected in his savage profile the bestial type of the race of vagabonds.One would have pronounced him a boar amid a herd of swine.
"Listen," said he to Gringoire, fondling his misshapen chin with his horny hand; "I don't see why you should not be hung.It is true that it appears to be repugnant to you; and it is very natural, for you bourgeois are not accustomed to it. You form for yourselves a great idea of the thing.After all, we don't wish you any harm.Here is a means of extricating yourself from your predicament for the moment.Will you become one of us?"
The reader can judge of the effect which this proposition produced upon Gringoire, who beheld life slipping away from him, and who was beginning to lose his hold upon it.He clutched at it again with energy.
"Certainly I will, and right heartily," said he.
"Do you consent," resumed Clopin, "to enroll yourself among the people of the knife?"
"Of the knife, precisely," responded Gringoire.
"You recognize yourself as a member of the free bourgeoisie?"* added the King of Thunes.
*A high-toned sharper.
"Of the free bourgeoisie."
"Subject of the Kingdom of Argot?"
"Of the Kingdom of Argot*."
*Thieves.
"A vagabond?"
"A vagabond."
"In your soul?"
"In my soul."
"I must call your attention to the fact," continued the king, "that you will be hung all the same."
"The devil!" said the poet.
"Only," continued Clopin imperturbably, "you will be hung later on, with more ceremony, at the expense of the good city of paris, on a handsome stone gibbet, and by honest men. That is a consolation."
"Just so," responded Gringoire.
"There are other advantages.In your quality of a high-toned sharper, you will not have to pay the taxes on mud, or the poor, or lanterns, to which the bourgeois of paris are subject."
"So be it," said the poet."I agree.I am a vagabond, a thief, a sharper, a man of the knife, anything you please; and I am all that already, monsieur, King of Thunes, for I am a philosopher; ~et omnia in philosophia, omnes in philosopho continentur~,--all things are contained in philosophy, all men in the philosopher, as you know."
The King of Thunes scowled.
"What do you take me for, my friend?What Hungarian Jew patter are you jabbering at us?I don't know Hebrew. One isn't a Jew because one is a bandit.I don't even steal any longer.I'm above that; I kill.Cut-throat, yes; cutpurse, no."
Gringoire tried to slip in some excuse between these curt words, which wrath rendered more and more jerky.
"I ask your pardon, monseigneur.It is not Hebrew; 'tis Latin."
"I tell you," resumed Clopin angrily, "that I'm not a Jew, and that I'll have you hung, belly of the synagogue, like that little shopkeeper of Judea, who is by your side, and whom I entertain strong hopes of seeing nailed to a counter one of these days, like the counterfeit coin that he is!"
So saying, he pointed his finger at the little, bearded Hungarian Jew who had accosted Gringoire with his ~facitote caritatem~, and who, understanding no other language beheld with surprise the King of Thunes's ill-humor overflow upon him.
At length Monsieur Clopin calmed down.
"So you will be a vagabond, you knave?" he said to our poet.
"Of course," replied the poet.
"Willing is not all," said the surly Clopin; "good will doesn't put one onion the more into the soup, and 'tis good for nothing except to go to paradise with; now, paradise and the thieves' band are two different things.In order to be received among the thieves,* you must prove that you are good for something, and for that purpose, you must search the manikin."
* L'argot.
"I'll search anything you like," said Gringoire.
Clopin made a sign.Several thieves detached themselves from the circle, and returned a moment later.They brought two thick posts, terminated at their lower extremities in spreading timber supports, which made them stand readily upon the ground; to the upper extremity of the two posts they fitted a cross-beam, and the whole constituted a very pretty portable gibbet, which Gringoire had the satisfaction of beholding rise before him, in a twinkling.Nothing was lacking, not even the rope, which swung gracefully over the cross-beam.
"What are they going to do?" Gringoire asked himself with some uneasiness.A sound of bells, which he heard at that moment, put an end to his anxiety; it was a stuffed manikin, which the vagabonds were suspending by the neck from the rope, a sort of scarecrow dressed in red, and so hung with mule-bells and larger bells, that one might have tricked out thirty Castilian mules with them.These thousand tiny bells quivered for some time with the vibration of the rope, then gradually died away, and finally became silent when the manikin had been brought into a state of immobility by that law of the pendulum which has dethroned the water clock and the hour-glass. Then Clopin, pointing out to Gringoire a rickety old stool placed beneath the manikin,-- "Climb up there."
"Death of the devil!" objected Gringoire; "I shall break my neck.Your stool limps like one of Martial's distiches; it has one hexameter leg and one pentameter leg."
"Climb!" repeated Clopin.
Gringoire mounted the stool, and succeeded, not without some oscillations of head and arms, in regaining his centre of gravity.
"Now," went on the King of Thunes, "twist your right foot round your left leg, and rise on the tip of your left foot."
"Monseigneur," said Gringoire, "so you absolutely insist on my breaking some one of my limbs?"
Clopin tossed his head.
"Hark ye, my friend, you talk too much.Here's the gist of the matter in two words: you are to rise on tiptoe, as I tell you; in that way you will be able to reach the pocket of the manikin, you will rummage it, you will pull out the purse that is there,--and if you do all this without our hearing the sound of a bell, all is well: you shall be a vagabond. All we shall then have to do, will be to thrash you soundly for the space of a week."
"~Ventre-Dieu~!I will be careful," said Gringoire."And suppose I do make the bells sound?"
"Then you will be hanged.Do you understand?"
"I don't understand at all," replied Gringoire.
"Listen, once more.You are to search the manikin, and take away its purse; if a single bell stirs during the operation, you will be hung.Do you understand that?"
"Good," said Gringoire; "I understand that.And then?"
"If you succeed in removing the purse without our hearing the bells, you are a vagabond, and you will be thrashed for eight consecutive days.You understand now, no doubt?"
"No, monseigneur; I no longer understand.Where is the advantage to me? hanged in one case, cudgelled in the other?"
"And a vagabond," resumed Clopin, "and a vagabond; is that nothing?It is for your interest that we should beat you, in order to harden you to blows."
"Many thanks," replied the poet.
"Come, make haste," said the king, stamping upon his cask, which resounded like a huge drum!Search the manikin, and let there be an end to this!I warn you for the last time, that if I hear a single bell, you will take the place of the manikin."
The band of thieves applauded Clopin's words, and arranged themselves in a circle round the gibbet, with a laugh so pitiless that Gringoire perceived that he amused them too much not to have everything to fear from them.No hope was left for him, accordingly, unless it were the slight chance of succeeding in the formidable operation which was imposed upon him; he decided to risk it, but it was not without first having addressed a fervent prayer to the manikin he was about to plunder, and who would have been easier to move to pity than the vagabonds.These myriad bells, with their little copper tong

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¡¶BOOK THIRD CHAPTER II.A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF PARIS. Page 1¡·
We have just attempted to restore, for the reader's benefit, that admirable church of Notre-Dame de paris.We have briefly pointed out the greater part of the beauties which it possessed in the fifteenth century, and which it lacks to-day; but we have omitted the principal thing,--the view of paris which was then to be obtained from the summits of its towers.
That was, in fact,--when, after having long groped one's way up the dark spiral which perpendicularly pierces the thick wall of the belfries, one emerged, at last abruptly, upon one of the lofty platforms inundated with light and air,--that was, in fact, a fine picture which spread out, on all sides at once, before the eye; a spectacle ~sui generis~, of which those of our readers who have had the good fortune to see a Gothic city entire, complete, homogeneous,--a few of which still remain, Nuremberg in Bavaria and Vittoria in Spain,--can readily form an idea; or even smaller specimens, provided that they are well preserved,--Vitr¨¦ in Brittany, Nordhausen in prussia.
The paris of three hundred and fifty years ago--the paris of the fifteenth century--was already a gigantic city.We parisians generally make a mistake as to the ground which we think that we have gained, since paris has not increased much over one-third since the time of Louis XI.It has certainly lost more in beauty than it has gained in size.
paris had its birth, as the reader knows, in that old island of the City which has the form of a cradle.The strand of that island was its first boundary wall, the Seine its first moat.paris remained for many centuries in its island state, with two bridges, one on the north, the other on the south; and two bridge heads, which were at the same time its gates and its fortresses,--the Grand-Chatelet on the right bank, the petit-Chatelet on the left.Then, from the date of the kings of the first race, paris, being too cribbed and confined in its island, and unable to return thither, crossed the water.Then, beyond the Grand, beyond the petit-Chatelet, a first circle of walls and towers began to infringe upon the country on the two sides of the Seine.Some vestiges of this ancient enclosure still remained in the last century; to-day, only the memory of it is left, and here and there a tradition, the Baudets or Baudoyer gate, "porte Bagauda".
Little by little, the tide of houses, always thrust from the heart of the city outwards, overflows, devours, wears away, and effaces this wall.philip Augustus makes a new dike for it.He imprisons paris in a circular chain of great towers, both lofty and solid.For the period of more than a century, the houses press upon each other, accumulate, and raise their level in this basin, like water in a reservoir.They begin to deepen; they pile story upon story; they mount upon each other; they gush forth at the top, like all laterally compressed growth, and there is a rivalry as to which shall thrust its head above its neighbors, for the sake of getting a little air.The street glows narrower and deeper, every space is overwhelmed and disappears.The houses finally leap the wall of philip Augustus, and scatter joyfully over the plain, without order, and all askew, like runaways.There they plant themselves squarely, cut themselves gardens from the fields, and take their ease.Beginning with 1367, the city spreads to such an extent into the suburbs, that a new wall becomes necessary, particularly on the right bank; Charles V. builds it.But a city like paris is perpetually growing.It is only such cities that become capitals.They are funnels, into which all the geographical, political, moral, and intellectual water-sheds of a country, all the natural slopes of a people, pour; wells of civilization, so to speak, and also sewers, where commerce, industry, intelligence, population,--all that is sap, all that is life, all that is the soul of a nation, filters and amasses unceasingly, drop by drop, century by century.
So Charles V.'s wall suffered the fate of that of philip Augustus.At the end of the fifteenth century, the Faubourg strides across it, passes beyond it, and runs farther.In the sixteenth, it seems to retreat visibly, and to bury itself deeper and deeper in the old city, so thick had the new city already become outside of it.Thus, beginning with the fifteenth century, where our story finds us, paris had already outgrown the three concentric circles of walls which, from the time of Julian the Apostate, existed, so to speak, in germ in the Grand-Chatelet and the petit-Chatelet.The mighty city had cracked, in succession, its four enclosures of walls, like a child grown too large for his garments of last year.Under Louis XI., this sea of houses was seen to be pierced at intervals by several groups of ruined towers, from the ancient wall, like the summits of hills in an inundation,--like archipelagos of the old paris submerged beneath the new. Since that time paris has undergone yet another transformation, unfortunately for our eyes; but it has passed only one more wall, that of Louis XV., that miserable wall of mud and spittle, worthy of the king who built it, worthy of the poet who sung it,--
~Le mur murant paris rend paris murmurant~.*
*The wall walling paris makes paris murmur.
In the fifteenth century, paris was still divided into three wholly distinct and separate towns, each having its own physiognomy, its own specialty, its manners, customs, privileges, and history: the City, the University, the Town.The City, which occupied the island, was the most ancient, the smallest, and the mother of the other two, crowded in between them like (may we be pardoned the comparison) a little old woman between two large and handsome maidens.The University covered the left bank of the Seine, from the Tournelle to the Tour de Nesle, points which correspond in the paris of to-day, the one to the wine market, the other to the mint.Its wall included a large part of that plain where Julian had built his hot baths.The hill of Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve was enclosed in it. The culminating point of this sweep of walls was the papal gate, that is to say, near the present site of the pantheon. The Town, which was the largest of the three fragments of paris, held the right bank.Its quay, broken or interrupted in many places, ran along the Seine, from the Tour de Billy to the Tour du Bois; that is to say, from the place where the granary stands to-day, to the present site of the Tuileries. These four points, where the Seine intersected the wall of the capital, the Tournelle and the Tour de Nesle on the right, the Tour de Billy and the Tour du Bois on the left, were called pre-eminently, "the four towers of paris."The Town encroached still more extensively upon the fields than the University. The culminating point of the Town wall (that of Charles V.) was at the gates of Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin, whose situation has not been changed.
As we have just said, each of these three great divisions of paris was a town, but too special a town to be complete, a city which could not get along without the other two.Hence three entirely distinct aspects: churches abounded in the City; palaces, in the Town; and colleges, in the University.Neglecting here the originalities, of secondary importance in old paris, and the capricious regulations regarding the public highways, we will say, from a general point of view, taking only masses and the whole group, in this chaos of communal jurisdictions, that the island belonged to the bishop, the right bank to the provost of the merchants, the left bank to the Rector; over all ruled the provost of paris, a royal not a municipal official.The City had Notre-Dame; the Town, the Louvre and the H?tel de Ville; the University, the Sorbonne. The Town had the markets (Halles); the city, the Hospital; the University, the pr¨¦-aux-Clercs.Offences committed by the scholars on the left bank were tried in the law courts on the island, and were punished on the right bank at Montfau?on; unless the rector, feeling the university to be strong and the king weak, intervened; for it was the students' privilege to be hanged on their own grounds.
The greater part of these privileges, it may be noted in passing, and there were some even better than the above, had been extorted from the kings by revolts and mutinies.It is the course of things from time immemorial; the king only lets go when the people tear away.There is an old charter which puts the matter naively: apropos of fidelity: ~Civibus fidelitas in reges, quoe tamen aliquoties seditionibus interrypta, multa peperit privileyia~.
In the fifteenth century, the Seine bathed five islands within the walls of paris: Louviers island, where there were then trees, and where there is no longer anything but wood; l'ile aux Vaches, and l'ile Notre-Dame, both deserted, with the exception of one house, both fiefs of the bishop--in the seventeenth century, a single island was formed out of these two, which was built upon and named l'ile Saint-Louis--, lastly the City, and at its point, the little islet of the cow tender, which was afterwards engulfed beneath the platform of the pont-Neuf.The City then had five bridges: three on the right, the pont Notre-Dame, and the pont au Change, of stone, the pont aux Meuniers, of wood; two on the left, the petit pont, of stone, the pont Saint-Michel, of wood; all loaded with houses.
The University had six gates, built by philip Augustus; there were, beginning with la Tournelle, the porte Saint- Victor, the porte Bordelle, the porte papale, the porte Saint- Jacques, the porte Saint-Michel, the porte Saint-Germain. The Town had six gates, built by Charles V.; beginning with the Tour de Billy they were: the porte Saint-Antoine, the porte du Temple, the porte Saint-Martin, the porte Saint-Denis, the porte Montmartre, the porte Saint-Honor¨¦.All these gates were strong, and also handsome, which does not detract from strength.A large, deep moat, with a brisk current during the high water of winter, bathed the base of the wall round paris; the Seine furnished the water.At night, the gates were shut, the river was barred at both ends of the city with huge iron chains, and paris slept tranquilly.
From a bird's-eye view, these three burgs, the City, the Town, and the University, each presented to the eye an inextricable skein of eccentrically tangled streets.Nevertheless, at first sight, one recognized the fact that these three fragments formed but one body.One immediately perceived three long parallel streets, unbroken, undisturbed, traversing, almost in a straight line, all three cities, from one end to the other; from North to South, perpendicularly, to the Seine, which bound them together, mingled them, infused them in each other, poured and transfused the people incessantly, from one to the other, and made one out of the three.The first of these streets ran from the porte Saint-Martin: it was called the Rue Saint-Jacques in the University, Rue de la Juiverie in the City, Rue Saint-Martin in the Town; it crossed the water twice, under the name of the petit pont and the pont Notre- Dame.The second, which was called the Rue de la Harpe on the left bank, Rue de la Barilleri¨¦ in the island, Rue Saint- Denis on the right bank, pont Saint-Michel on one arm of the Seine, pont au Change on the other, ran from the porte Saint-Michel in the University, to the porte Saint-Denis in the Town.However, under all these names, there were but two streets, parent streets, generating streets,--the two arteries of paris.All the other veins of the triple city either derived their supply from them or emptied into them.
Independently of these two principal streets, piercing paris diametrically in its whole breadth, from side to side, common to the entire capital, the City and the University had also each its own great special street, which ran lengthwise by them, parallel to the Seine, cutting, as it passed, at right angles, the two arterial thoroughfares.Thus, in the Town, one descended in a straight line from the porte Saint-Antoine to the porte Saint-Honor¨¦; in the University from the porte Saint-Victor to the porte Saint-Germain.These two great thoroughfares intersected by the two first, formed the canvas upon which reposed, knotted and crowded together on every hand, the labyrinthine network of the streets of paris.In the incomprehensible plan of these streets, one distinguished likewise, on looking attentively, two clusters of great streets, like magnified sheaves of grain, one in the University, the other in the Town, which spread out gradually from the bridges to the gates.
Some traces of this geometrical plan still exist to-day.
Now, what aspect did this whole present, when, as viewed from the summit of the towers of Notre-Dame, in 1482? That we shall try to describe.
For the spectator who arrived, panting, upon that pinnacle, it was first a dazzling confusing view of roofs, chimneys, streets, bridges, places, spires, bell towers.Everything struck your eye at once: the carved gable, the pointed roof, the turrets suspended at the angles of the walls; the stone pyramids of the eleventh century, the slate obelisks of the fifteenth; the round, bare tower of the donjon keep; the square and fretted tower of the church; the great and the little, the massive and the aerial.The eye was, for a long time, wholly lost in this labyrinth, where there was nothing which did not possess its originality, its reason, its genius, its beauty,--nothing which did not proceed from art; beginning with the smallest house, with its painted and carved front, with external beams, elliptical door, with projecting stories, to the royal Louvre, which then had a colonnade of towers.But these are the principal masses which were then to be distinguished when the eye began to accustom itself to this tumult of edifices.
In the first place, the City.--"The island of the City," as Sauval says, who, in spite of his confused medley, sometimes has such happy turns of expression,--"the island of the city is made like a great ship, stuck in the mud and run aground in the current, near the centre of the Seine."
We have just explained that, in the fifteenth century, this ship was anchored to the two banks of the river by five bridges.This form of a ship had also struck the heraldic scribes; for it is from that, and not from the siege by the Normans, that the ship which blazons the old shield of paris, comes, according to Favyn and pasquier.For him who understands how to decipher them, armorial bearings are algebra, armorial bearings have a tongue.The whole history of the second half of the Middle Ages is written in armorial bearings,--the first half is in the symbolism of the Roman churches.They are the hieroglyphics of feudalism, succeeding those of theocracy.
Thus the City first presented itself to the eye, with its stern to the east, and its prow to the west.Turning towards the prow, one had before one an innumerable flock of ancient roofs, over which arched broadly the lead-covered apse of the Sainte-Chapelle, like an elephant's haunches loaded with its tower.Only here, this tower was the most audacious, the most open, the most ornamented spire of cabinet-maker's work that ever let the sky peep through its cone of lace.In front of Notre-Dame, and very near at hand, three streets opened into the cathedral square,--a fine square, lined with ancient houses.Over the south side of this place bent the wrinkled and sullen fa?ade of the H?tel Dieu, and its roof, which seemed covered with warts and pustules.Then, on the right and the left, to east and west, within that wall of the City, which was yet so contracted, rose the bell towers of its one and twenty churches, of every date, of every form, of every size, from the low and wormeaten belfry of Saint-Denis du pas (~Carcer Glaueini~) to the slender needles of Saint-pierre aux Boeufs and Saint-Landry.
Behind Notre-Dame, the cloister and its Gothic galleries spread out towards the north; on the south, the half-Roman palace of the bishop; on the east, the desert point of the Terrain.In this throng of houses the eye also distinguished, by the lofty open-work mitres of stone which then crowned the roof itself, even the most elevated windows of the palace, the H?tel given by the city, under Charles VI., to Juv¨¦nal des Ursins; a little farther on, the pitch-covered sheds of the palus Market; in still another quarter the new apse of Saint- Germain le Vieux, lengthened in 1458, with a bit of the Rue aux Febves; and then, in places, a square crowded with people; a pillory, erected at the corner of a street; a fine fragment of the pavement of philip Augustus, a magnificent flagging, grooved for the horses' feet, in the middle of the road, and so badly replaced in the sixteenth century by the miserable cobblestones, called the "pavement of the League;" a deserted back courtyard, with one of those diaphanous staircase turrets, such as were erected in the fifteenth century, one of which is still to be seen in the Rue des Bourdonnais. Lastly, at the right of the Sainte-Chapelle, towards the west, the palais de Justice rested its group of towers at the edge of the water.The thickets of the king's gardens, which covered the western point of the City, masked the Island du passeur.As for the water, from the summit of the towers of Notre-Dame one hardly saw it, on either side of the City; the Seine was hidden by bridges, the bridges by houses.
And when the glance passed these bridges, whose roofs were visibly green, rendered mouldy before their time by the vapors from the water, if it was directed to the left, towards the University, the first edifice which struck it was a large, low sheaf of towers, the petit-Ch¨¤telet, whose yawning gate devoured the end of the petit-pont.Then, if your view ran along the bank, from east to west, from the Tournelle to the Tour de Nesle, there was a long cordon of houses, with carved beams, stained-glass windows, each story projecting over that beneath it, an interminable zigzag of bourgeois gables, frequently interrupted by the mouth of a street, and from time to time also by the front or angle of a huge stone mansion, planted at its ease, with courts and gardens, wings and detached buildings, amid this populace of crowded and narrow houses, like a grand gentleman among a throng of rustics. There were five or six of these mansions on the quay, from the house of Lorraine, which shared with the Bernardins the grand enclosure adjoining the Tournelle, to the H?tel de Nesle, whose principal tower ended paris, and whose pointed roofs were in a position, during three months of the year, to encroach, with their black triangles, upon the scarlet disk of the setting sun.
This side of the Seine was, however, the least mercantile of the two.Students furnished more of a crowd and more noise there than artisans, and there was not, properly speaking, any quay, except from the pont Saint-Michel to the Tour de Nesle.The rest of the bank of the Seine was now a naked strand, the same as beyond the Bernardins; again, a throng of houses, standing with their feet in the water, as between the two bridges.

¡¶BOOK THIRD CHAPTER II.A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF PARIS. Page 2¡·
There was a great uproar of laundresses; they screamed, and talked, and sang from morning till night along the beach, and beat a great deal of linen there, just as in our day. This is not the least of the gayeties of paris.
The University presented a dense mass to the eye.From one end to the other, it was homogeneous and compact.The thousand roofs, dense, angular, clinging to each other, composed, nearly all, of the same geometrical element, offered, when viewed from above, the aspect of a crystallization of the same substance.
The capricious ravine of streets did not cut this block of houses into too disproportionate slices.The forty-two colleges were scattered about in a fairly equal manner, and there were some everywhere.The amusingly varied crests of these beautiful edifices were the product of the same art as the simple roofs which they overshot, and were, actually, only a multiplication of the square or the cube of the same geometrical figure.Hence they complicated the whole effect, without disturbing it; completed, without overloading it. Geometry is harmony.Some fine mansions here and there made magnificent outlines against the picturesque attics of the left bank.The house of Nevers, the house of Rome, the house of Reims, which have disappeared; the H?tel de Cluny, which still exists, for the consolation of the artist, and whose tower was so stupidly deprived of its crown a few years ago. Close to Cluny, that Roman palace, with fine round arches, were once the hot baths of Julian.There were a great many abbeys, of a beauty more devout, of a grandeur more solemn than the mansions, but not less beautiful, not less grand. Those which first caught the eye were the Bernardins, with their three bell towers; Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve, whose square tower, which still exists, makes us regret the rest; the Sorbonne, half college, half monastery, of which so admirable a nave survives; the fine quadrilateral cloister of the Mathurins; its neighbor, the cloister of Saint-Benoit, within whose walls they have had time to cobble up a theatre, between the seventh and eighth editions of this book; the Cordeliers, with their three enormous adjacent gables; the Augustins, whose graceful spire formed, after the Tour de Nesle, the second denticulation on this side of paris, starting from the west. The colleges, which are, in fact, the intermediate ring between the cloister and the world, hold the middle position in the monumental series between the H?tels and the abbeys, with a severity full of elegance, sculpture less giddy than the palaces, an architecture less severe than the convents.Unfortunately, hardly anything remains of these monuments, where Gothic art combined with so just a balance, richness and economy. The churches (and they were numerous and splendid in the University, and they were graded there also in all the ages of architecture, from the round arches of Saint-Julian to the pointed arches of Saint-S¨¦verin), the churches dominated the whole; and, like one harmony more in this mass of harmonies, they pierced in quick succession the multiple open work of the gables with slashed spires, with open-work bell towers, with slender pinnacles, whose line was also only a magnificent exaggeration of the acute angle of the roofs.
The ground of the University was hilly; Mount Sainte- Genevi¨¨ve formed an enormous mound to the south; and it was a sight to see from the summit of Notre-Dame how that throng of narrow and tortuous streets (to-day the Latin Quarter), those bunches of houses which, spread out in every direction from the top of this eminence, precipitated themselves in disorder, and almost perpendicularly down its flanks, nearly to the water's edge, having the air, some of falling, others of clambering up again, and all of holding to one another.A continual flux of a thousand black points which passed each other on the pavements made everything move before the eyes; it was the populace seen thus from aloft and afar.
Lastly, in the intervals of these roofs, of these spires, of these accidents of numberless edifices, which bent and writhed, and jagged in so eccentric a manner the extreme line of the University, one caught a glimpse, here and there, of a great expanse of moss-grown wall, a thick, round tower, a crenellated city gate, shadowing forth the fortress; it was the wall of philip Augustus.Beyond, the fields gleamed green; beyond, fled the roads, along which were scattered a few more suburban houses, which became more infrequent as they became more distant.Some of these faubourgs were important: there were, first, starting from la Tournelle, the Bourg Saint-Victor, with its one arch bridge over the Bi¨¨vre, its abbey where one could read the epitaph of Louis le Gros, ~epitaphium Ludovici Grossi~, and its church with an octagonal spire, flanked with four little bell towers of the eleventh century (a similar one can be seen at Etampes; it is not yet destroyed); next, the Bourg Saint- Marceau, which already had three churches and one convent; then, leaving the mill of the Gobelins and its four white walls on the left, there was the Faubourg Saint-Jacques with the beautiful carved cross in its square; the church of Saint- Jacques du Haut-pas, which was then Gothic, pointed, charming; Saint-Magloire, a fine nave of the fourteenth century, which Napoleon turned into a hayloft; Notre-Dame des Champs, where there were Byzantine mosaics; lastly, after having left behind, full in the country, the Monastery des Chartreux, a rich edifice contemporary with the palais de Justice, with its little garden divided into compartments, and the haunted ruins of Vauvert, the eye fell, to the west, upon the three Roman spires of Saint-Germain des pr¨¦s.The Bourg Saint-Germain, already a large community, formed fifteen or twenty streets in the rear; the pointed bell tower of Saint- Sulpice marked one corner of the town.Close beside it one descried the quadrilateral enclosure of the fair of Saint- Germain, where the market is situated to-day; then the abbot's pillory, a pretty little round tower, well capped with a leaden cone; the brickyard was further on, and the Rue du Four, which led to the common bakehouse, and the mill on its hillock, and the lazar house, a tiny house, isolated and half seen.
But that which attracted the eye most of all, and fixed it for a long time on that point, was the abbey itself.It is certain that this monastery, which had a grand air, both as a church and as a seignory; that abbatial palace, where the bishops of paris counted themselves happy if they could pass the night; that refectory, upon which the architect had bestowed the air, the beauty, and the rose window of a cathedral; that elegant chapel of the Virgin; that monumental dormitory; those vast gardens; that portcullis; that drawbridge; that envelope of battlements which notched to the eye the verdure of the surrounding meadows; those courtyards, where gleamed men at arms, intermingled with golden copes;--the whole grouped and clustered about three lofty spires, with round arches, well planted upon a Gothic apse, made a magnificent figure against the horizon.
When, at length, after having contemplated the University for a long time, you turned towards the right bank, towards the Town, the character of the spectacle was abruptly altered. The Town, in fact much larger than the University, was also less of a unit.At the first glance, one saw that it was divided into many masses, singularly distinct.First, to the eastward, in that part of the town which still takes its name from the marsh where Camulog¨¨nes entangled Caesar, was a pile of palaces.The block extended to the very water's edge.Four almost contiguous H?tels, Jouy, Sens, Barbeau, the house of the Queen, mirrored their slate peaks, broken with slender turrets, in the Seine.
These four edifices filled the space from the Rue des Nonaindi¨¨res, to the abbey of the Celestins, whose spire gracefully relieved their line of gables and battlements.A few miserable, greenish hovels, hanging over the water in front of these sumptuous H?tels, did not prevent one from seeing the fine angles of their fa?ades, their large, square windows with stone mullions, their pointed porches overloaded with statues, the vivid outlines of their walls, always clear cut, and all those charming accidents of architecture, which cause Gothic art to have the air of beginning its combinations afresh with every monument.
Behind these palaces, extended in all directions, now broken, fenced in, battlemented like a citadel, now veiled by great trees like a Carthusian convent, the immense and multiform enclosure of that miraculous H?tel de Saint-pol, where the King of France possessed the means of lodging superbly two and twenty princes of the rank of the dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy, with their domestics and their suites, without counting the great lords, and the emperor when he came to view paris, and the lions, who had their separate H?tel at the royal H?tel.Let us say here that a prince's apartment was then composed of never less than eleven large rooms, from the chamber of state to the oratory, not to mention the galleries, baths, vapor-baths, and other "superfluous places," with which each apartment was provided; not to mention the private gardens for each of the king's guests; not to mention the kitchens, the cellars, the domestic offices, the general refectories of the house, the poultry-yards, where there were twenty-two general laboratories, from the bakehouses to the wine-cellars; games of a thousand sorts, malls, tennis, and riding at the ring; aviaries, fishponds, menageries, stables, barns, libraries, arsenals and foundries.This was what a king's palace, a Louvre, a H?tel de Saint-pol was then.A city within a city.
From the tower where we are placed, the H?tel Saint-pol, almost half hidden by the four great houses of which we have just spoken, was still very considerable and very marvellous to see.One could there distinguish, very well, though cleverly united with the principal building by long galleries, decked with painted glass and slender columns, the three H?tels which Charles V. had amalgamated with his palace: the H?tel du petit-Muce, with the airy balustrade, which formed a graceful border to its roof; the H?tel of the Abbe de Saint-Maur, having the vanity of a stronghold, a great tower, machicolations, loopholes, iron gratings, and over the large Saxon door, the armorial bearings of the abb¨¦, between the two mortises of the drawbridge; the H?tel of the Comte d' Etampes, whose donjon keep, ruined at its summit, was rounded and notched like a cock's comb; here and there, three or four ancient oaks, forming a tuft together like enormous cauliflowers; gambols of swans, in the clear water of the fishponds, all in folds of light and shade; many courtyards of which one beheld picturesque bits; the H?tel of the Lions, with its low, pointed arches on short, Saxon pillars, its iron gratings and its perpetual roar; shooting up above the whole, the scale- ornamented spire of the Ave-Maria; on the left, the house of the provost of paris, flanked by four small towers, delicately grooved, in the middle; at the extremity, the H?tel Saint-pol, properly speaking, with its multiplied fa?ades, its successive enrichments from the time of Charles V., the hybrid excrescences, with which the fancy of the architects had loaded it during the last two centuries, with all the apses of its chapels, all the gables of its galleries, a thousand weathercocks for the four winds, and its two lofty contiguous towers, whose conical roof, surrounded by battlements at its base, looked like those pointed caps which have their edges turned up.
Continuing to mount the stories of this amphitheatre of palaces spread out afar upon the ground, after crossing a deep ravine hollowed out of the roofs in the Town, which marked the passage of the Rue Saint-Antoine, the eye reached the house of Angoul¨ºme, a vast construction of many epochs, where there were perfectly new and very white parts, which melted no better into the whole than a red patch on a blue doublet.Nevertheless, the remarkably pointed and lofty roof of the modern palace, bristling with carved eaves, covered with sheets of lead, where coiled a thousand fantastic arabesques of sparkling incrustations of gilded bronze, that roof, so curiously damascened, darted upwards gracefully from the midst of the brown ruins of the ancient edifice; whose huge and ancient towers, rounded by age like casks, sinking together with old age, and rending themselves from top to bottom, resembled great bellies unbuttoned.Behind rose the forest of spires of the palais des Tournelles.Not a view in the world, either at Chambord or at the Alhambra, is more magic, more aerial, more enchanting, than that thicket of spires, tiny bell towers, chimneys, weather-vanes, winding staircases, lanterns through which the daylight makes its way, which seem cut out at a blow, pavilions, spindle-shaped turrets, or, as they were then called, "tournelles," all differing in form, in height, and attitude.One would have pronounced it a gigantic stone chess-board.
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¡¶BOOK FIFTH CHAPTER I.~ABBAS BEATI MARTINI~.¡·
Dom Claude's fame had spread far and wide.It procured for him, at about the epoch when he refused to see Madame de Beaujeu, a visit which he long remembered.
It was in the evening.He had just retired, after the office, to his canon's cell in the cloister of Notre-Dame.This cell, with the exception, possibly, of some glass phials, relegated to a corner, and filled with a decidedly equivocal powder, which strongly resembled the alchemist's "powder of projection," presented nothing strange or mysterious.There were, indeed, here and there, some inscriptions on the walls, but they were pure sentences of learning and piety, extracted from good authors.The archdeacon had just seated himself, by the light of a three-jetted copper lamp, before a vast coffer crammed with manuscripts.He had rested his elbow upon the open volume of _Honorius d'Autun_, ~De predestinatione et libero arbitrio~, and he was turning over, in deep meditation, the leaves of a printed folio which he had just brought, the sole product of the press which his cell contained.In the midst of his revery there came a knock at his door."Who's there?" cried the learned man, in the gracious tone of a famished dog, disturbed over his bone.
A voice without replied, "Your friend, Jacques Coictier." He went to open the door.
It was, in fact, the king's physician; a person about fifty years of age, whose harsh physiognomy was modified only by a crafty eye.Another man accompanied him.Both wore long slate-colored robes, furred with minever, girded and closed, with caps of the same stuff and hue.Their hands were concealed by their sleeves, their feet by their robes, their eyes by their caps.
"God help me, messieurs!" said the archdeacon, showing them in; "I was not expecting distinguished visitors at such an hour." And while speaking in this courteous fashion he cast an uneasy and scrutinizing glance from the physician to his companion.
"'Tis never too late to come and pay a visit to so considerable a learned man as Dom Claude Frollo de Tirechappe," replied Doctor Coictier, whose Franche-Comt¨¦ accent made all his phrases drag along with the majesty of a train-robe.
There then ensued between the physician and the archdeacon one of those congratulatory prologues which, in accordance with custom, at that epoch preceded all conversations between learned men, and which did not prevent them from detesting each other in the most cordial manner in the world. However, it is the same nowadays; every wise man's mouth complimenting another wise man is a vase of honeyed gall.
Claude Frollo's felicitations to Jacques Coictier bore reference principally to the temporal advantages which the worthy physician had found means to extract, in the course of his much envied career, from each malady of the king, an operation of alchemy much better and more certain than the pursuit of the philosopher's stone.
"In truth, Monsieur le Docteur Coictier, I felt great joy on learning of the bishopric given your nephew, my reverend seigneur pierre Verse.Is he not Bishop of Amiens?"
"Yes, monsieur Archdeacon; it is a grace and mercy of God."
"Do you know that you made a great figure on Christmas Day at the bead of your company of the chamber of accounts, Monsieur president?"
"Vice-president, Dom Claude.Alas! nothing more."
"How is your superb house in the Rue Saint-Andr¨¦ des Arcs coming on?'Tis a Louvre.I love greatly the apricot tree which is carved on the door, with this play of words: 'A L'ABRI-COTIER--Sheltered from reefs.'"
"Alas! Master Claude, all that masonry costeth me dear. In proportion as the house is erected, I am ruined."
"Ho! have you not your revenues from the jail, and the bailiwick of the palais, and the rents of all the houses, sheds, stalls, and booths of the enclosure?'Tis a fine breast to suck."
"My castellany of poissy has brought me in nothing this year."
"But your tolls of Triel, of Saint-James, of Saint-Germainen-Laye are always good."
"Six score livres, and not even parisian livres at that."
"You have your office of counsellor to the king.That is fixed."
"Yes, brother Claude; but that accursed seigneury of poligny, which people make so much noise about, is worth not sixty gold crowns, year out and year in."
In the compliments which Dom Claude addressed to Jacques Coictier, there was that sardonical, biting, and covertly mocking accent, and the sad cruel smile of a superior and unhappy man who toys for a moment, by way of distraction, with the dense prosperity of a vulgar man.The other did not perceive it.
"Upon my soul," said Claude at length, pressing his hand, "I am glad to see you and in such good health."
"Thanks, Master Claude."
"By the way," exclaimed Dom Claude, "how is your royal patient?"
"He payeth not sufficiently his physician," replied the doctor, casting a side glance at his companion.
"Think you so, Gossip Coictier," said the latter.
These words, uttered in a tone of surprise and reproach, drew upon this unknown personage the attention of the archdeacon which, to tell the truth, had not been diverted from him a single moment since the stranger had set foot across the threshold of his cell.It had even required all the thousand reasons which he had for handling tenderly Doctor Jacques Coictier, the all-powerful physician of King Louis XI., to induce him to receive the latter thus accompanied.Hence, there was nothing very cordial in his manner when Jacques Coictier said to him,--
"By the way, Dom Claude, I bring you a colleague who has desired to see you on account of your reputation."
"Monsieur belongs to science?" asked the archdeacon, fixing his piercing eye upon Coictier's companion.He found beneath the brows of the stranger a glance no less piercing or less distrustful than his own.
He was, so far as the feeble light of the lamp permitted one to judge, an old man about sixty years of age and of medium stature, who appeared somewhat sickly and broken in health.His profile, although of a very ordinary outline, had something powerful and severe about it; his eyes sparkled beneath a very deep superciliary arch, like a light in the depths of a cave; and beneath his cap which was well drawn down and fell upon his nose, one recognized the broad expanse of a brow of genius.
He took it upon himself to reply to the archdeacon's question,--
"Reverend master," he said in a grave tone, "your renown has reached my ears, and I wish to consult you.I am but a poor provincial gentleman, who removeth his shoes before entering the dwellings of the learned.You must know my name.I am called Gossip Tourangeau."
"Strange name for a gentleman," said the archdeacon to himself.
Nevertheless, he had a feeling that he was in the presence of a strong and earnest character.The instinct of his own lofty intellect made him recognize an intellect no less lofty under Gossip Tourangeau's furred cap, and as he gazed at the solemn face, the ironical smile which Jacques Coictier's presence called forth on his gloomy face, gradually disappeared as twilight fades on the horizon of night. Stern and silent, he had resumed his seat in his great armchair; his elbow rested as usual, on the table, and his brow on his hand.After a few moments of reflection, he motioned his visitors to be seated, and, turning to Gossip Tourangeau he said,--
"You come to consult me, master, and upon what science?"
"Your reverence," replied Tourangeau, "I am ill, very ill. You are said to be great AEsculapius, and I am come to ask your advice in medicine."
"Medicine!" said the archdeacon, tossing his head.He seemed to meditate for a moment, and then resumed: "Gossip Tourangeau, since that is your name, turn your head, you will find my reply already written on the wall."
Gossip Tourangeau obeyed, and read this inscription engraved above his head: "Medicine is the daughter of dreams.--JAMBLIQUE."
Meanwhile, Doctor Jacques Coictier had heard his companion's question with a displeasure which Dom Claude's response had but redoubled.He bent down to the ear of Gossip Tourangeau, and said to him, softly enough not to be heard by the archdeacon: "I warned you that he was mad. You insisted on seeing him."
"'Tis very possible that he is right, madman as he is, Doctor Jacques," replied his comrade in the same low tone, and with a bitter smile.
"As you please," replied Coictier dryly.Then, addressing the archdeacon: "You are clever at your trade, Dom Claude, and you are no more at a loss over Hippocrates than a monkey is over a nut.Medicine a dream!I suspect that the pharmacopolists and the master physicians would insist upon stoning you if they were here.So you deny the influence of philtres upon the blood, and unguents on the skin!You deny that eternal pharmacy of flowers and metals, which is called the world, made expressly for that eternal invalid called man!"
"I deny," said Dom Claude coldly, "neither pharmacy nor the invalid.I reject the physician."
"Then it is not true," resumed Coictier hotly, "that gout is an internal eruption; that a wound caused by artillery is to be cured by the application of a young mouse roasted; that young blood, properly injected, restores youth to aged veins; it is not true that two and two make four, and that emprostathonos follows opistathonos."
The archdeacon replied without perturbation: "There are certain things of which I think in a certain fashion."
Coictier became crimson with anger.
"There, there, my good Coictier, let us not get angry," said Gossip Tourangeau."Monsieur the archdeacon is our friend."
Coictier calmed down, muttering in a low tone,--
"After all, he's mad."
"~pasque-dieu~, Master Claude," resumed Gossip Tourangeau, after a silence, "You embarrass me greatly.I had two things to consult you upon, one touching my health and the other touching my star."
"Monsieur," returned the archdeacon, "if that be your motive, you would have done as well not to put yourself out of breath climbing my staircase.I do not believe in Medicine. I do not believe in Astrology."
"Indeed!" said the man, with surprise.
Coictier gave a forced laugh.
"You see that he is mad," he said, in a low tone, to Gossip Tourangeau."He does not believe in astrology."
"The idea of imagining," pursued Dom Claude, "that every ray of a star is a thread which is fastened to the head of a man!"
"And what then, do you believe in?" exclaimed Gossip Tourangeau.
The archdeacon hesitated for a moment, then he allowed a gloomy smile to escape, which seemed to give the lie to his response: "~Credo in Deum~."
"~Dominum nostrum~," added Gossip Tourangeau, making the sign of the cross.
"Amen," said Coictier.
"Reverend master," resumed Tourangeau, "I am charmed in soul to see you in such a religious frame of mind.But have you reached the point, great savant as you are, of no longer believing in science?"
"No," said the archdeacon, grasping the arm of Gossip Tourangeau, and a ray of enthusiasm lighted up his gloomy eyes, "no, I do not reject science.I have not crawled so long, flat on my belly, with my nails in the earth, through the innumerable ramifications of its caverns, without perceiving far in front of me, at the end of the obscure gallery, a light, a flame, a something, the reflection, no doubt, of the dazzling central laboratory where the patient and the wise have found out God."
"And in short," interrupted Tourangeau, "what do you hold to be true and certain?"
"Alchemy."
Coictier exclaimed, "pardieu, Dom Claude, alchemy has its use, no doubt, but why blaspheme medicine and astrology?"
"Naught is your science of man, naught is your science of the stars," said the archdeacon, commandingly.
"That's driving Epidaurus and Chaldea very fast," replied the physician with a grin.
"Listen, Messire Jacques.This is said in good faith.I am not the king's physician, and his majesty has not given me the Garden of Daedalus in which to observe the constellations.Don't get angry, but listen to me.What truth have you deduced, I will not say from medicine, which is too foolish a thing, but from astrology?Cite to me the virtues of the vertical boustrophedon, the treasures of the number ziruph and those of the number zephirod!"
"Will you deny," said Coictier, "the sympathetic force of the collar bone, and the cabalistics which are derived from it?"
"An error, Messire Jacques!None of your formulas end in reality.Alchemy on the other hand has its discoveries.Will you contest results like this?Ice confined beneath the earth for a thousand years is transformed into rock crystals.Lead is the ancestor of all metals.For gold is not a metal, gold is light.Lead requires only four periods of two hundred years each, to pass in succession from the state of lead, to the state of red arsenic, from red arsenic to tin, from tin to silver.Are not these facts?But to believe in the collar bone, in the full line and in the stars, is as ridiculous as to believe with the inhabitants of Grand-Cathay that the golden oriole turns into a mole, and that grains of wheat turn into fish of the carp species."
"I have studied hermetic science!" exclaimed Coictier, "and I affirm--"
The fiery archdeacon did not allow him to finish: "And I have studied medicine, astrology, and hermetics.Here alone is the truth." (As he spoke thus, he took from the top of the coffer a phial filled with the powder which we have mentioned above), "here alone is light!Hippocrates is a dream; Urania is a dream; Hermes, a thought.Gold is the sun; to make gold is to be God.Herein lies the one and only science. I have sounded the depths of medicine and astrology, I tell you!Naught, nothingness!The human body, shadows! the planets, shadows!"
And he fell back in his armchair in a commanding and inspired attitude.Gossip Touraugeau watched him in silence. Coictier tried to grin, shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, and repeated in a low voice,--
"A madman!"
"And," said Tourangeau suddenly, "the wondrous result,-- have you attained it, have you made gold?"
"If I had made it," replied the archdeacon, articulating his words slowly, like a man who is reflecting, "the king of France would be named Claude and not Louis."
The stranger frowned.
"What am I saying?" resumed Dom Claude, with a smile of disdain."What would the throne of France be to me when I could rebuild the empire of the Orient?"
"Very good!" said the stranger.
"Oh, the poor fool!" murmured Coictier.
The archdeacon went on, appearing to reply now only to his thoughts,--
"But no, I am still crawling; I am scratching my face and knees against the pebbles of the subterranean pathway.I catch a glimpse, I do not contemplate!I do not read, I spell out!"
"And when you know how to read!" demanded the stranger, "will you make gold?"
"Who doubts it?" said the archdeacon.
"In that case Our Lady knows that I am greatly in need of money, and I should much desire to read in your books.Tell me, reverend master, is your science inimical or displeasing to Our Lady?"
"Whose archdeacon I am?" Dom Claude contented himself with replying, with tranquil hauteur.
"That is true, my master.Well! will it please you to initiate me?Let me spell with you."
Claude assumed the majestic and pontifical attitude of a Samuel.
"Old man, it requires longer years than remain to you, to undertake this voyage across mysterious things.Your head is very gray!One comes forth from the cavern only with white hair, but only those with dark hair enter it.Science alone knows well how to hollow, wither, and dry up human faces; she needs not to have old age bring her faces already furrowed.Nevertheless, if the desire possesses you of putting yourself under discipline at your age, and of deciphering the formidable alphabet of the sages, come to me; 'tis well, I will make the effort.I will not tell you, poor old man, to go and visit the sepulchral chambers of the pyramids, of which ancient Herodotus speaks, nor the brick tower of Babylon, nor the immense white marble sanctuary of the Indian temple of Eklinga.I, no more than yourself, have seen the Chaldean masonry works constructed according to the sacred form of the Sikra, nor the temple of Solomon, which is destroyed, nor the stone doors of the sepulchre of the kings of Israel, which are broken.We will content ourselves with the fragments of the book of Hermes which we have here. I will explain to you the statue of Saint Christopher, the symbol of the sower, and that of the two angels which are on the front of the Sainte-Chapelle, and one of which holds in his hands a vase, the other, a cloud--"
Here Jacques Coictier, who had been unhorsed by the archdeacon's impetuous replies, regained his saddle, and interrupted him with the triumphant tone of one learned man correcting another,--"~Erras amice Claudi~.The symbol is not the number.You take Orpheus for Hermes."
"'Tis you who are in error," replied the archdeacon, gravely. "Daedalus is the base; Orpheus is the wall; Hermes is the edifice,--that is all.You shall come when you will," he continued, turning to Tourangeau, "I will show you the little parcels of gold which remained at the bottom of Nicholas Flamel's alembic, and you shall compare them with the gold of Guillaume de paris.I will teach you the secret virtues of the Greek word, ~peristera~.But, first of all, I will make you read, one after the other, the marble letters of the alphabet, the granite pages of the book.We shall go to the portal of Bishop Guillaume and of Saint-Jean le Rond at the Sainte- Chapelle, then to the house of Nicholas Flamel, Rue Manvault, to his tomb, which is at the Saints-Innocents, to his two hospitals, Rue de Montmorency.I will make you read the hieroglyphics which cover the four great iron cramps on the portal of the hospital Saint-Gervais, and of the Rue de la Ferronnerie.We will spell out in company, also, the fa?ade of Saint-Come, of Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve-des-Ardents, of Saint Martin, of Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie--."
For a long time, Gossip Tourangeau, intelligent as was his glance, had appeared not to understand Dom Claude.He interrupted.
"~pasque-dieu~! what are your books, then?"
"Here is one of them," said the archdeacon.
And opening the window of his cell he pointed out with his finger the immense church of Notre-Dame, which, outlining against the starry sky the black silhouette of its two towers, its stone flanks, its monstrous haunches, seemed an enormous two-headed sphinx, seated in the middle of the city.
The archdeacon gazed at the gigantic edifice for some time in silence, then extending his right hand, with a sigh, towards the printed book which lay open on the table, and his left towards Notre-Dame, and turning a sad glance from the book to the church,--"Alas," he said, "this will kill that."
Coictier, who had eagerly approached the book, could not repress an exclamation."H¨¦, but now, what is there so formidable in this: 'GLOSSA IN EpISTOLAS D. pAULI, ~Norimbergoe, Antonius Koburger~, 1474.'This is not new.'Tis a book of pierre Lombard, the Master of Sentences.Is it because it is printed?"
"You have said it," replied Claude, who seemed absorbed in a profound meditation, and stood resting, his forefinger bent backward on the folio which had come from the famous press of Nuremberg.Then he added these mysterious words: "Alas! alas! small things come at the end of great things; a tooth triumphs over a mass.The Nile rat kills the crocodile, the swordfish kills the whale, the book will kill the edifice."
The curfew of the cloister sounded at the moment when Master Jacques was repeating to his companion in low tones, his eternal refrain, "He is mad!" To which his companion this time replied, "I believe that he is."
It was the hour when no stranger could remain in the cloister.The two visitors withdrew."Master," said Gossip Tourangeau, as he took leave of the archdeacon, "I love wise men and great minds, and I hold you in singular esteem. Come to-morrow to the palace des Tournelles, and inquire for the Abb¨¦ de Sainte-Martin, of Tours."
The archdeacon returned to his chamber dumbfounded, comprehending at last who Gossip Tourangeau was, and recalling that passage of the register of Sainte-Martin, of Tours:-- ~Abbas beati Martini, SCILICET REX FRANCIAE, est canonicus de consuetudine et habet parvam proebendam quam habet sanctus Venantius, et debet sedere in sede thesaurarii~.
It is asserted that after that epoch the archdeacon had frequent conferences with Louis XI., when his majesty came to paris, and that Dom Claude's influence quite overshadowed that of Olivier le Daim and Jacques Coictier, who, as was his habit, rudely took the king to task on that account.

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