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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris

Book 10 Chapter 3 Long Live Mirth

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[34142]
Book 10 Chapter 3 Long Live Mirth
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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读者也许还记得，圣迹区有一部分地方是被市民区的古老城墙围住的，好多城楼在当时已经开始倾圮。那些城楼里有一座被乞丐们改成了俱乐部，下面的大厅做了酒店，上面几层派了别的用场。这个城楼是乞丐们聚会的场所中最活跃的，因而也是最可怕的一处。它是一个日夜吵闹不停的蜂窝。晚间，那乞丐王国里所有的人都去睡觉了，广场上那些可怕的前墙上再没有一个窗户里还亮着灯，再也听不到在那无数小房间无数窠巢里那些拐来的或私生的男女小孩的叫喊，但人们还能从那里的吵闹声里，从那同时在火炉窗户墙缝和一切孔隙里透出来的深红的火光里认出那座快活的城楼。

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这样地窖就成了酒店。要下到地窖必须经过一道低矮的门和一条象古典亚历山大诗体那样陡直的楼梯。门上有一块招牌，招牌上画着几个簇新的钱币和一只杀死的鸡，底下写着这样的双关语“死者来此按铃”。

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有一天晚上，当巴黎每座钟楼都敲响灭灯钟的时候，那些巡夜军警假若被准许走进可怕的圣迹区，就会看见乞丐们的酒店比往常更为嘈杂，酒喝得比往常更多，咒骂得也更加厉害。外面广场上有好几群人低声谈着话，好象是在策划什么重要的事情，到处有人蹲在石块地上，在磨生锈的刀剑。

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在酒店里，酒和赌博是乞丐们那晚拿来排遣他们心中思虑的主要消遣。

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要从喝酒的人的谈话里猜出他们的计划可不容易，只是他们的神态比往常兴奋，看得出他们每人的腰边都闪亮着某种武器，如一把镰刀，一柄斧头，一根大木棍或是一个旧火绳枪的枪托。

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那个厅堂是圆形的，相当宽大，但桌子摆得很挤，喝酒的人很多，所以酒店里的一切，包括男人，女人，凳子，啤酒瓶，喝酒的人，打盹的人，玩耍的人，健康的人，残废的人，全都象一堆牡蛎壳似的齐整协调地聚在一起。

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桌子上点着几枝蜡烛，但是把酒店照得象歌剧院那样明亮的却是那个炉灶。

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地窖很潮湿，因此哪怕在大热天也从来不让炉火熄灭。那个大炉灶的炉台上有雕刻，笨重的柴架和几件烹调用具直立在那里，炉灶里的木柴和煤炭烧得很旺，红红的火光射到对面的墙上，假若是在夜间的乡村街道上，看上去真象是铁工场的窗户。一条大狗一本正经地坐在炉火的灰烬里，一根串满了烤肉的铁扦在炭火前面翻动。

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虽然非常杂乱，可是一眼就看得出那些人分成主要的三堆，分别挤在读者早已认识的三个人物周围。三人中那一位穿着奇怪的东方式破旧衣服的，是马蒂亚斯·韩加蒂·斯比加里，他是埃及和波希米亚的公爵，这家伙坐在一张桌子上，架起腿，举起一根手指头，在给周围许多目瞪口呆的人讲授借助恶魔和不借助恶魔的巫术。另一群人围着我们的老朋友——全副武装的勇敢的土恩王克洛潘·图意弗周围，他正严肃地低声说着话，一只装满武器的大桶掀开了盖子，放在他面前，他正在安排武器的分配，他从桶里拿出大批的斧头、剑、铠甲、猎刀、枪托、锯子、钻子等等，这些东西好象丰收角里大量的苹果葡萄一样。每人随自己高兴领取一件，有的领一个头盔，有的领一把轻便的长剑，有的领一把有十字柄的短剑。连孩子们也武装起来。有几个没脚的人也全身披挂着，象大甲虫似的在人们脚前爬来爬去。

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最后是第三堆人，他们最会嚷嚷，最快活，人数也最多，他们把桌子和凳子都占了，从他们那全副甲胄里不断发出尖声的咒骂。有一个全身披挂的家伙，几乎看不见身子，只露出一个大而无当的红鼻头，鼻孔朝天，一束棕色的头发，一张鲜红的嘴和一双大胆的眼睛。他胸前装满了匕首和短刀，腰上佩着一把长剑，左边有一把生锈的弓，面前放着一大瓶酒，毫不理睬他右边那个衣衫不整的妓女。围着他的人们都在笑骂和痛饮。

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此外大约还有二十堆人，人数较少，这是些头上顶着大罐子走来走去的男女仆从和弯着腰玩弹子或骰子的家伙。一个角落里有人在吵架，另一个角落里有人在亲吻。这些情景会使你对全体产生一个个印象。照着这些人的红红的火光，使几千个巨大古怪的影子好象在酒店的四壁上跳舞。

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那种吵闹，简直就象一座钟楼里所有的钟通通敲响起来一样。

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烤肉时承油滴用的锅子里，滚开的油正在翻着泡沫，用它不断的尖叫声填补着整个大厅里那愈来愈多的谈话间的空隙。

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在这片喧闹声里，在酒店尽头处的炉灶角落里一位哲学家坐在一张椅子上沉思，他双脚踏在炉灰里，眼睛盯着燃烧的木柴，他就是比埃尔·甘果瓦。

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“咳，快些！赶紧装备好！一个钟头以后出发！”克洛潘·图意弗向他那黑话王国的臣民喊道。

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一个姑娘颤声唱起来：晚安呀，我的父母，最后的人要灭掉灯火。

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两个斗牌的人吵起架来了。“小子！”两人中脸色较红的那一个喊道，同时向另外那一个伸出拳头，“我要在你这张梅花上做个记号，你可有资格在国王陛下斗牌时填补米斯蒂格里的角色啦。”

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“蠢货，”另一个说道，从他说话时的鼻音就能分辨出他是个诺曼底人，“我们可是象加育维尔的圣徒们一样在这儿吃饱喝足啦！”

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“孩子们，”埃及公爵用假嗓子向他的听众说，“法国的巫婆去赴安息日会可不带扫帚和别的东西，不用油脂也不用牲畜，只用几句符咒。意大利的女巫往往弄一只公羊在门口等着她们。她们都必须从烟囱里走。”

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一个全副武装的青年的声音比谁都高：“妙呀，妙呀！”他喊道，“我今天才第一次武装起来！乞丐！我当上乞丐啦！耶稣的肚子！倒酒给我喝吧！

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朋友们，我名叫磨坊的若望·孚罗洛，我是一个绅士。我认为假若上帝是一名警察，他一定会当强盗。弟兄们，我们要好好地洗劫一番，我们都是些好汉，包围教堂，冲进每一道门，把那位漂亮姑娘拉出来，把她从法官手里救出来，从神甫手里救出来。捣毁修道院，把主教烧死在主教府。我们用不了一个市政官喝完一勺汤的时间，就能把事情办妥。我们的理由是正当的，我们要去抢圣母院，这是说定了的。我们要绞死伽西莫多。女士们，你们认识伽西莫多吗？在圣灵降临节你们可看见过他在那口大钟上喘气？天知道，那才好看呢！真象一个妖怪骑在一个食尸鬼身上。朋友们，听我说呀，我打心眼里是个乞丐，灵魂深处是个讲黑话的，我生来就是叫化子。我曾经非常有钱，我把我的财产吃光了。我母亲希望我当官，我父亲希望我当助祭教士，我伯母希望我当宗教法庭顾问，我祖母希望我当国王的首席秘书，我的伯祖母希望我当短袍保管人。我呢，我自愿当上了乞丐。我把这事告诉我父亲，他就当面骂我，告诉我母亲，那老太太就哭起来了，并且象那火上的烤肉一般嘘气。快乐万岁！我是一个真正的比塞特人。酒店老板我亲爱的，再拿酒来！我还有钱付账呢。我不愿再喝须雷逊酒了，怪呛喉咙的。我真高兴，咳，喝了一筐酒呢！”

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人们哄笑起来。看见大家围着他，那学生就嚷道：“多好的嗓门！这是疯狂的人群的大规模发作啊！”随后他就唱开了，眼睛仿佛浸沉在狂欢里，他用唱晚祷曲的声音唱道：“什么歌曲？什么乐器？这是什么样的漂亮歌曲和节奏呀！流利的风笛吹奏着赞美诗！这是天使的曲调中最动听的，一切歌曲里最奇特的了！”……他忽然不唱了，说道：“倒霉的酒家，给我晚饭吃呀！”

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稍稍安静了一会，就轮到埃及公爵用他那尖嗓子向流浪人发命令了：“……伶鼬取名安君，狐狸取名蓝脚或是林中赛跑者，狼取名灰脚或金脚，熊取名老人或祖父。扮侏儒的人要让别人看不见你们，你们却能看见别人。

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每只受过洗礼的癞蛤蟆都要穿上紫红色或者黑色的衣服，脖子上系一只铃铛，两脚上也系上铃铛。老祖父带头，老祖母殿后。这是能够使姑娘们裸体起舞的魔鬼西特亚加沙啊。”

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“凭弥撒祭发誓！”若望插话说，“我倒愿意当魔鬼西特亚加沙呢。”

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这当儿，乞丐们还在酒店的另一头一面低声谈话一面继续武装自己。

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“那可怜的拉·爱斯梅拉达！”一个流浪人说道，“她是我们的妹妹，我们得把她从那地方弄出来。”

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“她还在圣母院里吗？”一个犹太人模样的小贩说。

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“是呀，老天哪！”

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“咳！同志们，”那个小贩喊道，“到圣母院去吧！更妙的是那里面的圣费埃阿尔和圣费于西翁礼拜堂里有两个神像，一个是圣若望·巴甫第斯特，一个是圣安东尼，两个都是黄金铸成的，一共要值十七个金马克和十五个埃斯泰，那一对白银镀金的座脚也值十七个马克另五个盎斯。我非常清楚，我是个金匠呀。”

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这时人们给若望送晚饭来了。他便靠在身边那个女人的胸前喊道：“凭圣·乌特·德·吕格的名义发誓，虽然人们称呼他叫圣果格吕，我快活极啦！我前面有一个笨蛋用大公爵一般的狡猾样儿瞧着我，左边有一个牙齿长得遮住了下巴的家伙，而且我象那位围攻彭多瓦斯的纪埃元帅一样，右边靠着一个小丘——一只乳房。穆罕默德的肚子呀！伙计，你的神气象个骨器商人，却跑来坐在我跟前！我是贵族呢，朋友。商业和高贵是势不两立的。滚到那边去吧！哎呀，你们这些家伙！别打架呀！巴甫第斯特·克罗格·阿瓦松，你有一个挺好看的鼻子，怎么冒险去尝那个笨蛋的拳头！蠢货！并不是每个人都有鼻子的呢。你真了不起，咬耳朵雅克林！可惜你没有头发。哈，我名字叫若望·孚罗洛，我的哥哥是一位副主教，让魔鬼把他抓去吧！我讲的全都是实话。为了能当上乞丐，我心甘情愿地放弃了我哥哥允许我分居一半的天堂里的住宅。我可以引用拉丁原文，我有一块值得夸耀的蒂尔夏浦领地，所有的女人全都是我的情妇，这件事就象圣艾洛阿是个金匠一样千真万确，就象巴黎这座好城市的五种职业是皮匠、制革商人、皮带商人、钱包商人和苦力一样千真万确！就象圣洛昂是被蛋壳烧死的一样千真万确！我向你们担保，伙伴们！

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要是我说谎，一年前我就不会喝辣汤！

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可爱的人，有月光呢！打窗口朝那边望吧，瞧大风怎样卷刮那些云片！

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我就要把你的护胸揉得象云那样皱成一团呢。姑娘们，给孩子们擤擤鼻涕，把蜡烛剪剪！耶稣和穆罕默德呀！我吃到了什么东西？朱比特呀，嗨，我在你们这些家伙的脑瓜上没发现头发，却在煎蛋上发现头发哪！老妇人，我喜欢不带头发的煎蛋。让魔鬼把你弄成个塌鼻头！倍尔日比特漂亮的酒店老板娘，恶汉们在你的店里用叉子梳头发呢！”

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他一面说，一面把菜盘往石板地上一摔，用顶尖的嗓门唱起来：我呀，凭上帝的血起誓，我既没有信仰，也没有法律，既没有炉火，也没有住所，国王和上帝都把我无可奈何！

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这时克洛潘·图意弗已经结束了分配武器的工作。走到双脚搁在炉架上仿佛睡熟了的甘果瓦跟前。“比埃尔朋友，”土恩的王说道，“你在想什么鬼事儿？”

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甘果瓦带着忧郁的微笑转过头来。“我喜欢炉火，亲爱的大人，不单是由于炉火能够烤暖我们的脚或是为了在火上烧汤，而是因为它冒出火星。有时我一连几个钟头望着这些火星，黑洞洞的火炉里爆出的火星使我发现了千万种事物。这些火星也是些宇宙呢。”

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“要是我明白你的话，让天雷劈我！”土恩的王说道，“你知道现在几点了？”

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“不知道。”甘果瓦回答。

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于是克洛潘走向埃及公爵。

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“马蒂亚斯同志，”他说，“这个时辰不妙，听说国王路易十一正在巴黎。”

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“那就更有理由把我们的妹妹从他们的魔爪里救出来了，”那个老流浪汉说。

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“你这话很有丈夫气，马蒂亚斯，”土恩的王说，“不过我们要从从容容地干，不必怕教堂里会有人抵抗，那些议事司铎不过是些野兔，可是我们都强壮有力。大理院的人明天去找她的时候，正好让我们抓住！教皇的肚肠呀！我可不愿意人家把那漂亮的姑娘绞死！”

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克洛潘走出酒店去了。

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这时若望用沙哑的声音嚷道：“我喝呀，吃呀，我醉了，我是朱比特！

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哎，屠夫比埃尔，你要是再那样瞧着我，我可要用指甲把你的鼻子弹得绷绷响！”

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被他从沉思里惊醒的甘果瓦，看了看四周一片狂饮喧闹的景象，就咬着牙嘀咕道：“酒是淫乐的东西，使人酩酊大醉。哎，我不喝酒是对的，圣伯努瓦说得好：‘酒甚至使智者放弃学说。’”

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这时克洛潘回来了，用雷鸣般的声音喊道：“半夜到了！”

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听到这句话，就象休息的马队听到了军号声似的，酒店外面所有的乞丐无论男女老少，全都忙乱起来，响起了一片铠甲和刀枪的声音。

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月亮隐到云里去了。

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圣迹区顿时黑了下来，没有一丝亮光，可是并不是没有人在里面，有一群男女在那儿低声交谈，听得见他们嗡嗡的谈话声，看得见他们的兵器在黑暗里闪亮。克洛潘站到一块大石头上。“排队呀，黑话王国的人们！”他喊道，“排队呀，埃及人！排队呀，加利利帝国的人！”黑暗里到处在骚动，庞大的人群似乎排成了一支长长的队伍。过了几分钟，土恩王又提高嗓门喊道：“悄悄地穿过巴黎街道！通行口令是：小火把在闲逛！到达圣母院才准点燃火把！开步——走！”

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几分钟以后，黑压压的一长队人朝着欧项热桥开了过去，巡夜的骑兵队看见他们，便惊慌地穿过通到人烟稠密的菜市场的曲曲弯弯的街巷，四散逃开去了。

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The reader has probably not forgotten that a part of the Cour de Miracles was enclosed by the ancient wall which surrounded the city, a goodly number of whose towers had begun, even at that epoch, to fall to ruin. One of these towers had been converted into a pleasure resort by the vagabonds. There was a drain-shop in the underground story, and the rest in the upper stories. This was the most lively, and consequently the most hideous, point of the whole outcast den. It was a sort of monstrous hive, which buzzed there night and day. At night, when the remainder of the beggar horde slept, when there was no longer a window lighted in the dingy fa?ades of the Place, when not a cry was any longer to be heard proceeding from those innumerable families, those ant-hills of thieves, of wenches, and stolen or bastard children, the merry tower was still recognizable by the noise which it made, by the scarlet light which, flashing simultaneously from the air-holes, the windows, the fissures in the cracked walls, escaped, so to speak, from its every pore.

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The cellar then, was the dram-shop. The descent to it was through a low door and by a staircase as steep as a classic Alexandrine. Over the door, by way of a sign there hung a marvellous daub, representing new sons and dead chickens,* with this, pun below: ~Aux sonneurs pour les trépassés~,--The wringers for the dead.

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* ~Sols neufs: poulets tués~.

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One evening when the curfew was sounding from all the belfries in Paris, the sergeants of the watch might have observed, had it been granted to them to enter the formidable Court of Miracles, that more tumult than usual was in progress in the vagabonds’ tavern, that more drinking was being done, and louder swearing. Outside in the Place, there, were many groups conversing in low tones, as when some great plan is being framed, and here and there a knave crouching down engaged in sharpening a villanous iron blade on a paving-stone.

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Meanwhile, in the tavern itself, wine and gaming offered such a powerful diversion to the ideas which occupied the vagabonds’ lair that evening, that it would have been difficult to divine from the remarks of the drinkers, what was the matter in hand. They merely wore a gayer air than was their wont, and some weapon could be seen glittering between the legs of each of them,--a sickle, an axe, a big two-edged sword or the hook of an old hackbut.

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The room, circular in form, was very spacious; but the tables were so thickly set and the drinkers so numerous, that all that the tavern contained, men, women, benches, beer-jugs, all that were drinking, all that were sleeping, all that were playing, the well, the lame, seemed piled up pell-mell, with as much order and harmony as a heap of oyster shells. There were a few tallow dips lighted on the tables; but the real luminary of this tavern, that which played the part in this dram-shop of the chandelier of an opera house, was the fire. This cellar was so damp that the fire was never allowed to go out, even in midsummer; an immense chimney with a sculptured mantel, all bristling with heavy iron andirons and cooking utensils, with one of those huge fires of mixed wood and peat which at night, in village streets make the reflection of forge windows stand out so red on the opposite walls. A big dog gravely seated in the ashes was turning a spit loaded with meat before the coals.

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Great as was the confusion, after the first glance one could distinguish in that multitude, three principal groups which thronged around three personages already known to the reader. One of these personages, fantastically accoutred in many an oriental rag, was Mathias Hungadi Spicali, Duke of Egypt and Bohemia. The knave was seated on a table with his legs crossed, and in a loud voice was bestowing his knowledge of magic, both black and white, on many a gaping face which surrounded him. Another rabble pressed close around our old friend, the valiant King of Thunes, armed to the teeth. Clopin Trouillefou, with a very serious air and in a low voice, was regulating the distribution of an enormous cask of arms, which stood wide open in front of him and from whence poured out in profusion, axes, swords, bassinets, coats of mail, broadswords, lance-heads, arrows, and viretons,* like apples and grapes from a horn of plenty. Every one took something from the cask, one a morion, another a long, straight sword, another a dagger with a cross--shaped hilt. The very children were arming themselves, and there were even cripples in bowls who, in armor and cuirass, made their way between the legs of the drinkers, like great beetles.

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* An arrow with a pyramidal head of iron and copper spiral wings, by which a rotatory motion was communicated.

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Finally, a third audience, the most noisy, the most jovial, and the most numerous, encumbered benches and tables, in the midst of which harangued and swore a flute-like voice, which escaped from beneath a heavy armor, complete from casque to spurs. The individual who had thus screwed a whole outfit upon his body, was so hidden by his warlike accoutrements that nothing was to be seen of his person save an impertinent, red, snub nose, a rosy mouth, and bold eyes. His belt was full of daggers and poniards, a huge sword on his hip, a rusted cross-bow at his left, and a vast jug of wine in front of him, without reckoning on his right, a fat wench with her bosom uncovered. All mouths around him were laughing, cursing, and drinking.

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Add twenty secondary groups, the waiters, male and female, running with jugs on their heads, gamblers squatting over taws, merelles,* dice, vachettes, the ardent game of tringlet, quarrels in one corner, kisses in another, and the reader will have some idea of this whole picture, over which flickered the light of a great, flaming fire, which made a thousand huge and grotesque shadows dance over the walls of the drinking shop.

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* A game played on a checker-board containing three concentric sets of squares, with small stones. The game consisted in getting three stones in a row.

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As for the noise, it was like the inside of a bell at full peal.

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The dripping-pan, where crackled a rain of grease, filled with its continual sputtering the intervals of these thousand dialogues, which intermingled from one end of the apartment to the other.

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In the midst of this uproar, at the extremity of the tavern, on the bench inside the chimney, sat a philosopher meditating with his feet in the ashes and his eyes on the brands. It was Pierre Gringoire.

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"Be quick! make haste, arm yourselves! we set out on the march in an hour!" said Clopin Trouillefou to his thieves.

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A wench was humming,--

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"~Bonsoir mon père et ma mere, Les derniers couvrent le feu~."*

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* Good night, father and mother, the last cover up the fire.

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Two card players were disputing,--

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"Knave!" cried the reddest faced of the two, shaking his fist at the other; "I’ll mark you with the club. You can take the place of Mistigri in the pack of cards of monseigneur the king."

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"Ugh!" roared a Norman, recognizable by his nasal accent; "we are packed in here like the saints of Caillouville!"

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"My sons," the Duke of Egypt was saying to his audience, in a falsetto voice, "sorceresses in France go to the witches’ sabbath without broomsticks, or grease, or steed, merely by means of some magic words. The witches of Italy always have a buck waiting for them at their door. All are bound to go out through the chimney."

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The voice of the young scamp armed from head to foot, dominated the uproar.

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"hurrah! hurrah!" he was shouting. "My first day in armor! outcast! I am an outcast. Give me something to drink. My friends, my name is Jehan Frollo du Moulin, and I am a gentleman. My opinion is that if God were a ~gendarme~, he would turn robber. Brothers, we are about to set out on a fine expedition. Lay siege to the church, burst in the doors, drag out the beautiful girl, save her from the judges, save her from the priests, dismantle the cloister, burn the bishop in his palace--all this we will do in less time than it takes for a burgomaster to eat a spoonful of soup. Our cause is just, we will plunder Notre-Dame and that will be the end of it. We will hang Quasimodo. Do you know Quasimodo, ladies? Have you seen him make himself breathless on the big bell on a grand Pentecost festival! ~Corne du Père~! ’tis very fine! One would say he was a devil mounted on a man. Listen to me, my friends; I am a vagabond to the bottom of my heart, I am a member of the slang thief gang in my soul, I was born an independent thief. I have been rich, and I have devoured all my property. My mother wanted to make an officer of me; my father, a sub-deacon; my aunt, a councillor of inquests; my grandmother, prothonotary to the king; my great aunt, a treasurer of the short robe,--and I have made myself an outcast. I said this to my father, who spit his curse in my face; to my mother, who set to weeping and chattering, poor old lady, like yonder fagot on the and-irons. Long live mirth! I am a real Bicêtre. Waitress, my dear, more wine. I have still the wherewithal to pay. I want no more Surène wine. It distresses my throat. I’d as lief, ~corboeuf~! gargle my throat with a basket."

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Meanwhile, the rabble applauded with shouts of laughter; and seeing that the tumult was increasing around him, the scholar cried,--.

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"Oh! what a fine noise! ~Populi debacchantis populosa debacchatio~!" Then he began to sing, his eye swimming in ecstasy, in the tone of a canon intoning vespers, ~Quoe cantica! quoe organa! quoe cantilenoe! quoe meloclioe hic sine fine decantantur! Sonant melliflua hymnorum organa, suavissima angelorum melodia, cantica canticorum mira~! He broke off: "Tavern-keeper of the devil, give me some supper!"

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There was a moment of partial silence, during which the sharp voice of the Duke of Egypt rose, as he gave instructions to his Bohemians.

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"The weasel is called Adrune; the fox, Blue-foot, or the Racer of the Woods; the wolf, Gray-foot, or Gold-foot; the bear the Old Man, or Grandfather. The cap of a gnome confers invisibility, and causes one to behold invisible things. Every toad that is baptized must be clad in red or black velvet, a bell on its neck, a bell on its feet. The godfather holds its head, the godmother its hinder parts. ’Tis the demon Sidragasum who hath the power to make wenches dance stark naked."

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"By the mass!" interrupted Jehan, "I should like to be the demon Sidragasum."

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Meanwhile, the vagabonds continued to arm themselves and whisper at the other end of the dram-shop.

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"That poor Esmeralda!" said a Bohemian. "She is our sister. She must be taken away from there."

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"Is she still at Notre-Dame?" went on a merchant with the appearance of a Jew.

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"Yes, pardieu!"

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"Well! comrades!" exclaimed the merchant, "to Notre-Dame! So much the better, since there are in the chapel of Saints Féréol and Ferrution two statues, the one of John the Baptist, the other of Saint-Antoine, of solid gold, weighing together seven marks of gold and fifteen estellins; and the pedestals are of silver-gilt, of seventeen marks, five ounces. I know that; I am a goldsmith."

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Here they served Jehan with his supper. As he threw himself back on the bosom of the wench beside him, he exclaimed,--

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"By Saint Voult-de-Lucques, whom people call Saint Goguelu, I am perfectly happy. I have before me a fool who gazes at me with the smooth face of an archduke. Here is one on my left whose teeth are so long that they hide his

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chin. And then, I am like the Marshal de Gié at the siege of Pontoise, I have my right resting on a hillock. ~Ventre- Mahom~! Comrade! you have the air of a merchant of tennis- balls; and you come and sit yourself beside me! I am a nobleman, my friend! Trade is incompatible with nobility. Get out of that! Hola hé! You others, don’t fight! What, Baptiste Croque-Oison, you who have such a fine nose are going to risk it against the big fists of that lout! Fool! ~Non cuiquam datum est habere nasum~--not every one is favored with a nose. You are really divine, Jacqueline Ronge-Oreille! ’tis a pity that you have no hair! Holà! my name is Jehan Frollo, and my brother is an archdeacon. May the devil fly off with him! All that I tell you is the truth. In turning vagabond, I have gladly renounced the half of a house situated in paradise, which my brother had promised me. ~Dimidiam domum in paradiso~. I quote the text. I have a fief in the Rue Tirechappe, and all the women are in love with me, as true as Saint Eloy was an excellent goldsmith, and that the five trades of the good city of Paris are the tanners, the tawers, the makers of cross-belts, the purse-makers, and the sweaters, and that Saint Laurent was burnt with eggshells. I swear to you, comrades.

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"~Que je ne beuvrai de piment, Devant un an, si je cy ment~.*

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* That I will drink no spiced and honeyed wine for a year, if I am lying now.

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"’Tis moonlight, my charmer; see yonder through the window how the wind is tearing the clouds to tatters! Even thus will I do to your gorget.--Wenches, wipe the children’s noses and snuff the candles.--Christ and Mahom! What am I eating here, Jupiter? Ohé! innkeeper! the hair which is not on the heads of your hussies one finds in your omelettes. Old woman! I like bald omelettes. May the devil confound you!--A fine hostelry of Beelzebub, where the hussies comb their heads with the forks!

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"Friend Pierre," said the King of Thunes, "what the devil are you thinking about?"

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Gringoire turned to him with a melancholy smile.

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