Chapter III: Long Live Mirth

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 dram-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 façades 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.

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 sous and dead chickens,[53] with this, pun
below: _Aux sonneurs pour les trépassés_,—The ringers for the
dead.

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.

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.

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.

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,[54] 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.

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.

Add twenty secondary groups, the waiters, male and female,
running with jugs on their heads, gamblers squatting over taws,
merelles,[55] 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.

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

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.

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.

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

A wench was humming,—

“Bonsoir mon père et ma mère,
Les derniers couvrent le feu.”[56]

Two card players were disputing,—

“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.”

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

“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.”

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

“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, _corbœuf!_ gargle my
throat with a basket.”

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

“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, _Quæ cantica!
quæ organa! quæ cantilenæ! quæ melodiæ 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!”

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.

“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.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, pardieu!”

“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.”

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

“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 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! Holà 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 Éloy 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.

“Que je ne beuvrai de piment,
Devant un an, si je cy ment![57]

“’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!

“Et je n’ai moi,
Par la sang-Dieu!
Ni foi, ni loi,
Ni feu, ni lieu,
Ni roi,
Ni Dieu.”[58]

In the meantime, Clopin Trouillefou had finished the distribution
of arms. He approached Gringoire, who appeared to be plunged in a
profound revery, with his feet on an andiron.

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

Gringoire turned to him with a melancholy smile.

“I love the fire, my dear lord. Not for the trivial reason that
fire warms the feet or cooks our soup, but because it has sparks.
Sometimes I pass whole hours in watching the sparks. I discover a
thousand things in those stars which are sprinkled over the black
background of the hearth. Those stars are also worlds.”

“Thunder, if I understand you!” said the outcast. “Do you know
what o’clock it is?”

“I do not know,” replied Gringoire.

Clopin approached the Duke of Egypt.

“Comrade Mathias, the time we have chosen is not a good one. King
Louis XI. is said to be in Paris.”

“Another reason for snatching our sister from his claws,” replied
the old Bohemian.

“You speak like a man, Mathias,” said the King of Thunes.
“Moreover, we will act promptly. No resistance is to be feared in
the church. The canons are hares, and we are in force. The people
of the parliament will be well balked to-morrow when they come to
seek her! Guts of the pope I don’t want them to hang the pretty
girl!”

Clopin quitted the dram-shop.

Meanwhile, Jehan was shouting in a hoarse voice:

“I eat, I drink, I am drunk, I am Jupiter! Eh! Pierre, the
Slaughterer, if you look at me like that again, I’ll fillip the
dust off your nose for you.”

Gringoire, torn from his meditations, began to watch the wild and
noisy scene which surrounded him, muttering between his teeth:
“_Luxuriosa res vinum et tumultuosa ebrietas_. Alas! what good
reason I have not to drink, and how excellently spoke
Saint-Benoît: ‘_Vinum apostatare facit etiam sapientes!_’”

At that moment, Clopin returned and shouted in a voice of
thunder: “Midnight!”

At this word, which produced the effect of the call to boot and
saddle on a regiment at a halt, all the outcasts, men, women,
children, rushed in a mass from the tavern, with great noise of
arms and old iron implements.

The moon was obscured.

The Cour des Miracles was entirely dark. There was not a single
light. One could make out there a throng of men and women
conversing in low tones. They could be heard buzzing, and a gleam
of all sorts of weapons was visible in the darkness. Clopin
mounted a large stone.

“To your ranks, Argot!”[59] he cried. “Fall into line, Egypt!
Form ranks, Galilee!”

A movement began in the darkness. The immense multitude appeared
to form in a column. After a few minutes, the King of Thunes
raised his voice once more,—

“Now, silence to march through Paris! The password is, ‘Little
sword in pocket!’ The torches will not be lighted till we reach
Notre-Dame! Forward, march!”

Ten minutes later, the cavaliers of the watch fled in terror
before a long procession of black and silent men which was
descending towards the Pont au Change, through the tortuous
streets which pierce the close-built neighborhood of the markets
in every direction.