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：“Se?or cabellero， para comprar un pedaso de pan！''
“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 chemisam.''
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？”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.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 rifodé； 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.”
“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， “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， by God's head！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.
“Of the free bourgeoisie.”
“Subject of the Kingdom of Argot？”
“Of the Kingdom of Argot.”
“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.”
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.”
“I'll search anything you like， ”said Gringoire.
