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Updated: May 16, 2025
They say, Coupe-Gorge ." * Cut-Weazand Street. Cut-Throat Street. The two friends set out towards "Eve's Apple." It is unnecessary to mention that they had first gathered up the money, and that the archdeacon followed them. The archdeacon followed them, gloomy and haggard. Was this the Phoebus whose accursed name had been mingled with all his thoughts ever since his interview with Gringoire?
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.
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."
"It strikes me, Master Pierre Gringoire," he said to himself, placing his finger to his brow, "that you are running like a madman. The little scamps are no less afraid of you than you are of them. It strikes me, I say, that you heard the clatter of their wooden shoes fleeing southward, while you were fleeing northward.
Both were allowed to plunge into a dark and narrow street, where no one dared to venture after them; so thoroughly did the mere chimera of Quasimodo gnashing his teeth bar the entrance. "Here's a marvellous thing," said Gringoire; "but where the deuce shall I find some supper?" Gringoire set out to follow the gypsy at all hazards.
Bellevigne de l'Etoile, Andry the Red, Francois Chante-Prune, stepped up to Gringoire. At that moment a cry arose among the thieves: "La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda!" Gringoire shuddered, and turned towards the side whence the clamor proceeded. The crowd opened, and gave passage to a pure and dazzling form. It was the gypsy.
"Now," went on the King of Thunes, "twist your right foot round your left leg, and rise on the tip of your left foot." "Monseigneur," said Gringoire, "so you absolutely insist on my breaking some one of my limbs?" Clopin tossed his head. "Hark ye, my friend, you talk too much.
"What men arrange," said Claude, "things disarrange." "I am a Pyrrhonian philosopher," replied Gringoire, "and I hold all things in equilibrium." "And how do you earn your living?" "I still make epics and tragedies now and then; but that which brings me in most is the industry with which you are acquainted, master; carrying pyramids of chairs in my teeth."
"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!
Our philosopher was speechless, and turned his astonished eyes from the goat to the young girl. "Holy Virgin!" he said at last, when surprise permitted him to speak, "here are two hearty dames!" The gypsy broke the silence on her side. "You must be a very bold knave!" "Pardon, mademoiselle," said Gringoire, with a smile. "But why did you take me for your husband?"
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