In the middle of the hall， backed against the western wall， a large and magnificent gallery draped with cloth of gold， into which enter in procession， through a small， arched door， grave personages， announced successively by the shrill voice of an usher. On the front benches were already a number of venerable figures， muffled in ermine， velvet， and scarlet.Around the dais—which remains silent and dignified—below， opposite， everywhere， a great crowd and a great murmur.Thousands of glances directed by the people on each face upon the dais， a thousand whispers over each name.Certainly， the spectacle is curious， and well deserves the attention of the spectators.But yonder， quite at the end， what is that sort of trestle work with four motley puppets upon it， and more below？Who is that man beside the trestle， with a black doublet and a pale face？Alas！my dear reader， it is Pierre Gringoire and his prologue.
We have all forgotten him completely.
This is precisely what he feared.
From the moment of the cardinal's entrance， Gringoire had never ceased to tremble for the safety of his prologue. At first he had enjoined the actors， who had stopped in suspense， to continue， and to raise their voices； then， perceiving that no one was listening， he had stopped them； and， during the entire quarter of an hour that the interruption lasted， he had not ceased to stamp， to flounce about， to appeal to Gisquette and Liénarde， and to urge his neighbors to the continuance of the prologue； all in vain.No one quitted the cardinal， the embassy， and the gallery—sole centre of this vast circle of visual rays.We must also believe， and we say it with regret， that the prologue had begun slightly to weary the audience at the moment when his eminence had arrived， and created a diversion in so terrible a fashion.After all， on the gallery as well as on the marble table， the spectacle was the same：the conflict of Labor and Clergy， of Nobility and Merchandise.And many people preferred to see them alive， breathing， moving， elbowing each other in flesh and blood， in this Flemish embassy， in this Episcopal court， under the cardinal's robe， under Coppenole’s jerkin， than painted， decked out， talking in verse， and， so to speak， stuffed beneath the yellow amid white tunics in which Gringoire had so ridiculously clothed them.
Nevertheless， when our poet beheld quiet reestablished to some extent， he devised a stratagem which might have redeemed all.
“Monsieur， ”he said， turning towards one of his neighbors， a fine， big man， with a patient face， “suppose we begin again.”
“What？”said his neighbor.
“Hé！the Mystery， ”said Gringoire.
“As you like， ”returned his neighbor.
This semi-approbation sufficed for Gringoire， and， conducting his own affairs， he began to shout， confounding himself with the crowd as much as possible：“Begin the mystery again！begin again！”
“The devil！”said Joannes de Molendino， “what are they jabbering down yonder， at the end of the hall？”“Say， comrades， isn't that mystery finished？They want to begin it all over again. That's not fair！”
“No， no！”shouted all the scholars.“Down with the mystery！Down with it！”
But Gringoire had multiplied himself， and only shouted the more vigorously：“Begin again！begin again！”
These clamors attracted the attention of the cardinal.
“Monsieur Bailiff of the Courts， ”said he to a tall， black man， placed a few paces from him， “are those knaves in a holy-water vessel， that they make such a hellish noise？”
The bailiff of the courts was a sort of amphibious magistrate， a sort of bat of the judicial order， related to both the rat and the bird， the judge and the soldier.
He approached his eminence， and not without a good deal of fear of the latter's displeasure， he awkwardly explained to him the seeming disrespect of the audience：that noonday had arrived before his eminence， and that the comedians had been forced to begin without waiting for his eminence.
The cardinal burst into a laugh.
“On my faith， the rector of the university ought to have done the same. What say you， Master Guillaume Rym？”
“Monseigneur， ”replied Guillaume Rym， “let us be content with having escaped half of the comedy. There is at least that much gained.”
“Can these rascals continue their farce？”asked the bailiff.
“Continue， continue， ”said the cardinal， “it's all the same to me. I'll read my breviary in the meantime.”
The bailiff advanced to the edge of the estrade， and cried， after having invoked silence by a wave of the hand， —
“Bourgeois， rustics， and citizens， in order to satisfy those who wish the play to begin again， and those who wish it to end， his eminence orders that it be continued.”
Both parties were forced to resign themselves. But the public and the author long cherished a grudge against the cardinal.
So the personages on the stage took up their parts， and Gringoire hoped that the rest of his work， at least， would be listened to.This hope was speedily dispelled like his other illusions； silence had indeed， been restored in the audience， after a fashion； but Gringoire had not observed that at the moment when the cardinal gave the order to continue， the gallery was far from full， and that after the Flemish envoys there had arrived new personages forming part of the cortege， whose names and ranks， shouted out in the midst of his dialogue by the intermittent cry of the usher， produced considerable ravages in it. Let the reader imagine the effect in the midst of a theatrical piece， of the yelping of an usher， flinging in between two rhymes， and often in the middle of a line， parentheses like the following， —
“Master Jacques Charmolue， procurator to the king in the Ecclesiastical Courts！”
“Jehan de Harlay， equerry guardian of the office of chevalier of the night watch of the city of Paris！”
“Messire Galiot de Genoilhac， chevalier， seigneur de Brussac， master of the king's artillery！”
“Master Dreux-Raguier， surveyor of the woods and forests of the king our sovereign， in the land of France， Champagne and Brie！”
“Messire Louis de Graville， chevalier， councillor， and chamberlain of the king， admiral of France， keeper of the Forest of Vincennes！”
“Master Denis le Mercier， guardian of the house of the blind at Paris！”etc.， etc.， etc.
This was becoming unbearable.
This strange accompaniment， which rendered it difficult to follow the piece， made Gringoire all the more indignant because he could not conceal from himself the fact that the interest was continually increasing， and that all his work required was a chance of being heard.
It was， in fact， difficult to imagine a more ingenious and more dramatic composition.The four personages of the prologue were bewailing themselves in their mortal embarrassment， when Venus in person， presented herself to them， clad in a fine robe beating the heraldic device of the ship of the city of Paris.She had come herself to claim the dolphin promised to the most beautiful.Jupiter， whose thunder could be heard rumbling in the dressing-room， supported her claim， and Venus was on the point of carrying it off， —that is to say， without allegory， of marrying monsieur the dauphin， when a young child clad in white damask， and holding in her hand a daisy came to contest it with Venus.
Theatrical effect and change.
After a dispute， Venus， Marguerite， and the assistants agreed to submit to the good judgment of time holy Virgin. There was another good part， that of the king of Mesopotamia； but through so many interruptions， it was difficult to make out what end he served.All these persons had ascended by the ladder to the stage.
But all was over； none of these beauties had been felt nor understood. On the entrance of the cardinal， one would have said that an invisible magic thread had suddenly drawn all glances from the marble table to the gallery， from the southern to the western extremity of the hall.Nothing could disenchant the audience； all eyes remained fixed there， and the new-comers and their accursed names， and their faces， and their costumes， afforded a continual diversion.This was very distressing.With the exception of Gisquette and Liénarde， who turned round from time to time when Gringoire plucked them by the sleeve； with the exception of the big， patient neighbor， no one listened， no one looked at the poor， deserted morality full face.Gringoire saw only profiles.
With what bitterness did he behold his whole erection of glory and of poetry crumble away bit by bit！And to think that these people had been upon the point of instituting a revolt against the bailiff through impatience to hear his work！now that they had it they did not care for it. This same representation which had been begun amid so unanimous an acclamation！Eternal flood and ebb of popular favor！To think that they had been on the point of hanging the bailiff's sergeant！What would he not have given to be still at that hour of honey！
But the usher's brutal monologue came to an end； every one had arrived， and Gringoire breathed freely once more； the actors continued bravely. But Master Coppenole， the hosier， must needs rise of a sudden， and Gringoire was forced to listen to him deliver， amid universal attention， the following abominable harangue.
“Messieurs the bourgeois and squires of Paris， I don't know， cross of God！what we are doing here. I certainly do see yonder in the corner on that stage， some people who appear to be fighting.I don't know whether that is what you call a“mystery， ”but it is not amusing； they quarrel with their tongues and nothing more.I have been waiting for the first blow this quarter of an hour； nothing comes； they are cowards who only scratch each other with insults.You ought to send for the fighters of London or Rotterdam； and， I can tell you！you would have had blows of the fist that could be heard in the Place； but these men excite our pity.They ought at least， to give us a moorish dance， or some other mummer！That is not what was told me； I was promised a feast of fools， with the election of a pope.We have our pope of fools at Ghent also； we're not behindhand in that， cross of God！But this is the way we manage it； we collect a crowd like this one here， then each person in turn passes his head through a hole， and makes a grimace at the rest； time one who makes the ugliest， is elected pope by general acclamation； that's the way it is.It is very diverting.Would you like to make your pope after the fashion of my country？At all events， it will be less wearisome than to listen to chatterers.If they wish to come and make their grimaces through the hole， they can join the game.What say you， Messieurs les bourgeois？You have here enough grotesque specimens of both sexes， to allow of laughing in Flemish fashion， and there are enough of us ugly in countenance to hope for a fine grinning match.”
Gringoire would have liked to retort； stupefaction， rage， indignation， deprived him of words. Moreover， the suggestion of the popular hosier was received with such enthusiasm by these bourgeois who were flattered at being called“squires， ”that all resistance was useless.There was nothing to be done but to allow one's self to drift with the torrent.Gringoire hid his face between his two hands， not being so fortunate as to have a mantle with which to veil his head， like Agamemnon of Timantis.
Chapter5 Quasimodo
In the twinkling of an eye， all was ready to execute Coppenole's idea. Bourgeois， scholars and law clerks all set to work.The little chapel situated opposite the marble table was selected for the scene of the grinning match.A pane broken in the pretty rose window above the door， left free a circle of stone through which it was agreed that the competitors should thrust their heads.In order to reach it， it was only necessary to mount upon a couple of hogsheads， which had been produced from I know not where， and perched one upon the other， after a fashion.It was settled that each candidate， man or woman， should， for the sake of leaving the impression of his grimace fresh and complete， cover his face and remain concealed in the chapel until the moment of his appearance.In less than an instant， the chapel was crowded with competitors， upon whom the door was then closed.
Coppenole， from his post， ordered all， directed all， arranged all. During the uproar， the cardinal， no less abashed than Gringoire， had retired with all his suite， under the pretext of business and vespers， without the crowd which his arrival had so deeply stirred being in the least moved by his departure.Guillaume Rym was the only one who noticed his eminence's discomfiture.The attention of the populace， like the sun， pursued its revolution； having set out from one end of the hall， and halted for a space in the middle， it had now reached the other end.The marble table， the brocaded gallery had each had their day； it was now the turn of the chapel of Louis XI.Henceforth， the field was open to all folly.There was no one there now， but the Flemings and the rabble.
The grimaces began.The first face which appeared at the aperture， with eyelids turned up to the reds， a mouth open like a maw， and a brow wrinkled like our hussar boots of the Empire， evoked such an inextinguishable peal of laughter that Homer would have taken all these louts for gods.Nevertheless， the grand hall was anything but Olympus， and Gringoire's poor Jupiter knew it better than any one else.A second and third grimace followed， then another and another； and the laughter and transports of delight went on increasing.There was in this spectacle， a peculiar power of intoxication and fascination， of which it would be difficult to convey to the reader of our day and our salons any idea.
Let the reader picture to himself a series of visages presenting successively all geometrical forms， from the triangle to the trapezium， from the cone to the polyhedron； all human expressions， from wrath to lewdness； all ages， from the wrinkles of the new-born babe to the wrinkles of the aged and dying； all religious phantasmagories， from Faun to Beelzebub； all animal profiles， from the maw to the beak， from the jowl to the muzzle. Let the reader imagine all these grotesque figures of the Pont Neuf， those nightmares petrified beneath the hand of Germain Pilon， assuming life and breath， and coming in turn to stare you in the face with burning eyes； all the masks of the Carnival of Venice passing in succession before your glass， —in a word， a human kaleidoscope.
