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"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.
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!"
His bristled with ten iron beaks, so that Jehan could have disputed with Nestor's Homeric vessel the redoubtable title of dexeubolos. "What do I mean to do with it, august king of Thunes? Do you see that row of statues which have such idiotic expressions, yonder, above the three portals?" "Yes. Well?" "'Tis the gallery of the kings of France." "What is that to me?" said Clopin. "Wait!
"Who will go with me?" said Clopin. "I shall go at it again. By the way, where is the little scholar Jehan, who is so encased in iron?" "He is dead, no doubt," some one replied; "we no longer hear his laugh." The King of Thunes frowned: "So much the worse. There was a brave heart under that ironmongery. And Master Pierre Gringoire?"
The King of Thunes ran boldly to the formidable beam, and placed his foot upon it: "Here is one!" he exclaimed; "'tis the canons who send it to you." And, making a mocking salute in the direction of the church, "Thanks, canons!" This piece of bravado produced its effects, the spell of the beam was broken.
The heavy beam lay in the middle of the enclosure, and groans were heard from the poor wretches who had received its first shock, and who had been almost cut in twain, on the angle of the stone steps. The King of Thunes, his first amazement passed, finally found an explanation which appeared plausible to his companions. "Throat of God! are the canons defending themselves?
You are in the presence of three powerful sovereigns: myself, Clopin Trouillefou, King of Thunes, successor to the Grand Coesre, supreme suzerain of the Realm of Argot; Mathias Hunyadi Spicali, Duke of Egypt and of Bohemia, the old yellow fellow whom you see yonder, with a dish clout round his head; Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of Galilee, that fat fellow who is not listening to us but caressing a wench.
"Is there, then, no way of forcing this door," exclaimed the King of Thunes, stamping his foot. The Duke of Egypt pointed sadly to the two streams of boiling lead which did not cease to streak the black facade, like two long distaffs of phosphorus. "Churches have been known to defend themselves thus all by themselves," he remarked with a sigh.
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.
Pilloried on the very place where, on the day before, he had been saluted, acclaimed, and proclaimed Pope and Prince of Fools, in the cortege of the Duke of Egypt, the King of Thunes, and the Emperor of Galilee!
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