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Updated: June 16, 2025
He had seen her, accompanied by her goat, take to the Rue de la Coutellerie; he took the Rue de la Coutellerie. "Why not?" he said to himself. Gringoire, a practical philosopher of the streets of Paris, had noticed that nothing is more propitious to revery than following a pretty woman without knowing whither she is going.
I have had enough of that coughing king! I have seen Charles of Burgundy drunk, and he was less malignant than Louis XI. when ailing." "Master Jacques," replied Rym, "'tis because wine renders kings less cruel than does barley water." On emerging from the Bastille, Gringoire descended the Rue Saint-Antoine with the swiftness of a runaway horse.
The priest interrupted him: "Is it agreed." "What is death, after all?" pursued Gringoire with exaltation. "A disagreeable moment, a toll-gate, the passage of little to nothingness.
She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty Djali followed her. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She examined him for a moment in silence. "You are going to hang this man?" she said gravely, to Clopin. "Yes, sister," replied the King of Thunes, "unless you will take him for your husband." She made her pretty little pout with her under lip. "I'll take him," said she.
The three who had Gringoire in their clutches led him in front of this hogshead, and the entire bacchanal rout fell silent for a moment, with the exception of the cauldron inhabited by the child. Gringoire dared neither breathe nor raise his eyes.
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, disputing the ground foot by foot. "It is worth trouble One moment! Listen to me You are not going to condemn me without having heard me"
This episode considerably distracted the attention of the audience; and a goodly number of spectators, among them Robin Poussepain, and all the clerks at their head, gayly applauded this eccentric duet, which the scholar, with his shrill voice, and the mendicant had just improvised in the middle of the prologue. Gringoire was highly displeased.
No sooner had he entered than it rubbed itself gently against his knees, covering the poet with caresses and with white hairs, for it was shedding its hair. Gringoire returned the caresses. "Who is this with you?" said the gypsy, in a low voice. "Be at ease," replied Gringoire. "'Tis one of my friends."
"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.
When Gringoire paused at last, quite out of breath, he raised his head tremblingly towards the king, who was engaged in scratching a spot on the knee of his breeches with his finger-nail; then his majesty began to drink from the goblet of ptisan. But he uttered not a word, and this silence tortured Gringoire. At last the king looked at him. "Here is a terrible bawler!" said, he.
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