continued to advance at a slower pace. Soon he saw 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![6]”
He overtook a man with crutches and wooden legs. 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: “Señor cabellero, para comprar un pedaso de pan![7]”
For the third time something barred his way. This something or, rather, someone was a blind man, who droned through his nose with a Hungarian accent: “Facitote caritatem!”
“Well, now,” said Gringoire, “here’s one at last who speaks a Christian tongue. My friend,” and he turned towards the blind man, “I sold my last shirt last week.”
That said, he turned his back upon the blind man, and continued to walk. But then all three came up to him in great haste and began to sing their song to him.
Gringoire set out to run. The blind man ran! The lame man ran! The cripple in the bowl ran!
And then they swarmed about him, and men with one arm, and with one eye, and the leprous with their sores, some emerging from little adjacent streets, howling and bellowing. This whole legion had closed in behind him, and his three beggars held him fast.
Tehy reached the end of the street. It opened upon an immense place, with a thousand scattered lights. Gringoire continued walking, hoping to escape.
“Onde vas, hombre?” (Where are you going, my man?) cried the cripple, flinging away his crutches, and running after him.
In the meantime the legless man, erect upon his feet, crowned Gringoire with his heavy iron bowl.
“Where am I?” said the terrified poet.
“In the Court of Miracles,” replied a fourth spectre.
Cour des Miracles was 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, a stream of vices; a lying hospital where the ne’er-do-wells of all nations, beggars by day, were transformed by night into brigands.
It was a vast place, irregular and badly paved. Fires, around which swarmed strange groups, blazed here and there. Every one was going, coming, and shouting.
It was like a new world, unknown, unheard of, misshapen, creeping, swarming, fantastic.
At that moment, a distinct cry arose. “Let’s take him to the king! Let’s take him to the king!”
“To the king! to the king!” repeated all voices.
They dragged him off to the great fire.
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 place fell silent for a moment.
Gringoire dared neither breathe nor raise his eyes.
The king addressed him, from the summit of his cask,—
“Who is this rogue?”
Gringoire shuddered. That voice made him recall to him another voice, which, that very morning, had dealt the deathblow to his mystery. He raised his head. It was indeed Clopin Trouillefou.
Gringoire, without knowing why, had regained some hope, on recognizing his accursed mendicant of the Grand Hall.
“Master,” stammered he; “monseigneur—sire—how ought I to address you?”
“Monseigneur, his majesty, or comrade, call me what you please. But make haste. What do you have 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, “Listen. 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.”
“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, par la tête 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. “It is worth trouble—One moment!—Listen to me—You are not going to condemn me without having heard me—”
His voice was drowned in the uproar which rose around him.
In the meantime, Clopin Trouillefou appeared to hold a momentary conference with the Duke of Egypt, and the Emperor of Galilee. After a while, he turned to Gringoire.
“Listen,” said he; “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. After all, we don’t wish you any harm. Will you become one of us?”
“Certainly I will,” said Gringoire
“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[8]?”
“Of the Kingdom of Argot.”
“A
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Kingdom of Argot – воры
