companiment, which made it difficult to follow the tenor of the piece, was the more provoking to Gringoire, as he could not disguise from himself that the interest in it was increasing, and that nothing was wanting to his composition but to be listened to. It was, indeed, difficult to imagine a plot more ingeniously or dramatically woven. While the four personages of the prologue were bewailing their hopeless perplexity, Venus in person, vera incessu patuit dea, had presented herself before them, clad in a fine cotte-hardie, having blazoned fair upon its front the ship displayed on the old city escutcheon of Paris. She was come to claim for herself the dolphin promised to the most beautiful. She was supported by Jupiter, whose thunder was heard to rumble in the dressing-room; and the goddess was about to bear away the prize, - that is, in plain terms, to espouse monsieur the dauphin, - when a little girl dressed in white damask, and carrying a marguerite in her hand, a lucid personification of the Lady of Flanders, had come to contend with Venus. Here were at once coup-de-théâtre and preparation for the catastrophe. After a proper dispute, Venus, Margaret, and those behind the scenes had agreed to refer the matter to the award of the holy Virgin. There was another fine part, that of Don Pedro, King of Mesopotamia; but amid so many interruptions it was difficult to discover what was his share of the action. All these personages climbed up the ladder to the stage.

But it was all over with the play; not one of these beauties was felt or understood. It seemed as if, at the cardinal's entrance, some invisible and magical thread had suddenly drawn away every look from the marble table to the gallery, from the southern extremity of the hall to its western side. Nothing could disenchant the auditory; all eyes remained fixed in that direction; and the persons who successively arrived on that side, with their cursed names, and their faces, and their dresses, made a continual diversion. The case was desperate. Except Gisquette and Liénarde, who turned aside from time to time when Gringoire pulled them by the sleeve, except the lusty patient man that stood near him, no one listened to, no one looked at, the poor abandoned morality. Gringoire could see in the faces of the auditory nothing but profiles.

With what bitterness did he see all his fabric of poetry and of glory thus falling to pieces! Only to think that this multitude had been on the point of rebelling against monsieur the bailiff through their impatience to hear his composition: and now that they had it, they cared nothing about it, - that same performance which had begun amid such unanimous acclamation! Everlasting ebb and flow of the popular favor! Only to think that they had been near hanging the bailiff's sergeants! What would he not have given to have recalled that blissful moment! However, the usher's brutal monologue ceased at length; everybody had arrived: so that Gringoire took breath, and the actors were going on bravely, when all at once Maître Coppenole, the hosier, got upon his legs, and Gringoire heard him deliver, in the midst of the universal attention to his piece, this abominable harangue :

"Messieurs the bourgeois and hobereaux of Paris - Croix-Dieu! I know not what we're doing here. I do indeed see, down in that corner, upon that stage, some people who look as if they wanted to fight. I know not whether that be what you call a mystery, but I do know it's not amusing. They belabor one another with their tongues, but that's all. For this quarter of an hour I've been waiting to see the first blow, but nothing comes; they're cowards, and maul one another only with foul words. You should have had boxers from London or Rotterdam; and then indeed we should have had hard knocks, which you might have heard the length of this hall. But those creatures there are quite pitiful; they should at least give us a morris-dance or some other piece of mummery. This is not what I was told it was to be; I'd been promised a feast of fools with an election of a pope. We at Ghent, too, have our fools' pope; and in that, Croix-Dieu! we're behind nobody. But we do thus: a mob gets together, as here for instance; then each in his turn goes and puts his head through a hole and makes faces at the others; he that makes the ugliest face, according to general acclamation, is chosen pope. That's our way, and 'tis very diverting. Shall we make your pope after the fashion of my country? At any rate it will not be so tiresome as listening to those babblers. If they've a mind to come and try their hands at face-making, they shall have their turn. What say you, my masters? Here's a droll sample enough of both sexes, to give us a right hearty Flemish laugh, and we can show ugly phizzes enow to give us hopes of a fine grinningmatch."

Gringoire would fain have replied, but amazement, resentment, and indignation deprived him of utterance. Besides, the motion made by the popular hosier was received with such enthusiasm by those townsfolk, flattered at being called hobereaux (a term in that day somewhat approaching to gentle men, as now used in England in addressing a mixed multitude, though in this day it is no longer used complimentarily), that all resistance would have been unavailing. All that could now be done was to go with the stream. Gringoire hid his face with both his hands, not being so fortunate as to possess a mantle wherewith to veil his countenance, like the Agamemnon of Timanthes.

CHAPTER V.

QUASIMODO, THE HUNCHBACK.

In the twinkling of an eye everything was ready for putting Coppenole's idea into execution. Townspeople, scholars, and clerks had all set themselves to work. The small chapel, situated opposite to the marble table, was fixed upon to be the scene of the grinning-match. The glass being broken out of one of the divisions of the pretty rose-shaped window over the doorway, left open a circle of stone through which it was agreed that the candidates should pass their heads. To get up to it they had only to climb upon two casks which had been laid hold of somewhere or other, and set one upon another just as it happened. It was settled that each candidate, whether man or woman (for they might make a shepope), in order to leave fresh and entire the impression of his grin, should cover his face and keep himself unseen in the chapel until the moment of making his appearance at the hole. In a moment the chapel was filled with competitors, and the door was closed upon them.

Coppenole, from his place in the gallery, ordered everything, directed everything, arranged everything. During the noisy applause that followed his pro