CHAPTER II. PIERRE GRINGOIRE.

Nevertheless, as he harangued them, the satisfaction and

admiration unanimously excited by his costume were dissipated by

his words; and when he reached that untoward conclusion: “As soon

as his illustrious eminence, the cardinal, arrives, we will

begin,” his voice was drowned in a thunder of hooting.

“Begin instantly! The mystery! the mystery immediately!” shrieked

the people. And above all the voices, that of Johannes de

Molendino was audible, piercing the uproar like the fife’s

derisive serenade: “Commence instantly!” yelped the scholar.

“Down with Jupiter and the Cardinal de Bourbon!” vociferated

Robin Poussepain and the other clerks perched in the window.

“The morality this very instant!” repeated the crowd; “this very

instant! the sack and the rope for the comedians, and the

cardinal!”

Poor Jupiter, haggard, frightened, pale beneath his rouge,

dropped his thunderbolt, took his cap in his hand; then he bowed

and trembled and stammered: “His eminence—the ambassadors—Madame

Marguerite of Flanders—.” He did not know what to say. In truth,

he was afraid of being hung.

Hung by the populace for waiting, hung by the cardinal for not

having waited, he saw between the two dilemmas only an abyss;

that is to say, a gallows.

Luckily, some one came to rescue him from his embarrassment, and

assume the responsibility.

An individual who was standing beyond the railing, in the free

space around the marble table, and whom no one had yet caught

sight of, since his long, thin body was completely sheltered from

every visual ray by the diameter of the pillar against which he

was leaning; this individual, we say, tall, gaunt, pallid, blond,

still young, although already wrinkled about the brow and cheeks,

with brilliant eyes and a smiling mouth, clad in garments of

black serge, worn and shining with age, approached the marble

table, and made a sign to the poor sufferer. But the other was so

confused that he did not see him. The new comer advanced another

step.

“Jupiter,” said he, “my dear Jupiter!”

The other did not hear.

At last, the tall blond, driven out of patience, shrieked almost

in his face,—

“Michel Giborne!”

“Who calls me?” said Jupiter, as though awakened with a start.

“I,” replied the person clad in black.

“Ah!” said Jupiter.

“Begin at once,” went on the other. “Satisfy the populace; I

undertake to appease the bailiff, who will appease monsieur the

cardinal.”

Jupiter breathed once more.

“Messeigneurs the _bourgeois_,” he cried, at the top of his lungs

to the crowd, which continued to hoot him, “we are going to begin

at once.”

“_Evoe Jupiter! Plaudite cives_! All hail, Jupiter! Applaud,

citizens!” shouted the scholars.

“Noël! Noël! good, good,” shouted the people.

The hand clapping was deafening, and Jupiter had already

withdrawn under his tapestry, while the hall still trembled with

acclamations.

In the meanwhile, the personage who had so magically turned the

tempest into dead calm, as our old and dear Corneille puts it,

had modestly retreated to the half-shadow of his pillar, and

would, no doubt, have remained invisible there, motionless, and

mute as before, had he not been plucked by the sleeve by two

young women, who, standing in the front row of the spectators,

had noticed his colloquy with Michel Giborne-Jupiter.

“Master,” said one of them, making him a sign to approach.

“Hold your tongue, my dear Liénarde,” said her neighbor, pretty,

fresh, and very brave, in consequence of being dressed up in her

best attire. “He is not a clerk, he is a layman; you must not say

master to him, but messire.”

“Messire,” said Liénarde.

The stranger approached the railing.

“What would you have of me, damsels?” he asked, with alacrity.

“Oh! nothing,” replied Liénarde, in great confusion; “it is my

neighbor, Gisquette la Gencienne, who wishes to speak with you.”

“Not so,” replied Gisquette, blushing; “it was Liénarde who

called you master; I only told her to say messire.”

The two young girls dropped their eyes. The man, who asked

nothing better than to enter into conversation, looked at them

with a smile.

“So you have nothing to say to me, damsels?”

“Oh! nothing at all,” replied Gisquette.

“Nothing,” said Liénarde.

The tall, light-haired young man retreated a step; but the two

curious maidens had no mind to let slip their prize.

“Messire,” said Gisquette, with the impetuosity of an open

sluice, or of a woman who has made up her mind, “do you know that

soldier who is to play the part of Madame the Virgin in the

mystery?”

“You mean the part of Jupiter?” replied the stranger.

“Hé! yes,” said Liénarde, “isn’t she stupid? So you know

Jupiter?”

“Michel Giborne?” replied the unknown; “yes, madam.”

“He has a fine beard!” said Liénarde.

“Will what they are about to say here be fine?” inquired

Gisquette, timidly.

“Very fine, mademoiselle,” replied the unknown, without the

slightest hesitation.

“What is it to be?” said Liénarde.

“‘The Good Judgment of Madame the Virgin,’—a morality, if you

please, damsel.”

“Ah! that makes a difference,” responded Liénarde.

A brief silence ensued—broken by the stranger.

“It is a perfectly new morality, and one which has never yet been

played.”

“Then it is not the same one,” said Gisquette, “that was given

two years ago, on the day of the entrance of monsieur the legate,

and where three handsome maids played the parts—”

“Of sirens,” said Liénarde.

“And all naked,” added the young man.

Liénarde lowered her eyes modestly. Gisquette glanced at her and

did the same. He continued, with a smile,—

“It was a very pleasant thing to see. To-day it is a morality

made expressly for Madame the Demoiselle of Flanders.”

“Will they sing shepherd songs?” inquired Gisquette.

“Fie!” said the stranger, “in a morality? you must not confound

styles. If it were a farce, well and good.”

“That is a pity,” resumed Gisquette. “That day, at the Ponceau

Fountain, there were wild men and women, who fought and assumed

many aspects, as they sang little motets and bergerettes.”

“That which is suitable for a legate,” returned the stranger,

with a good deal of dryness, “is not suitable for a princess.”

“And beside them,” resumed Liénarde, “played many brass

instruments, making great melodies.”

“And for the refreshment of the passers-by,” continued Gisquette,

“the fountain spouted through three mouths, wine, milk, and

hippocrass, of which every one drank who wished.”

“And a little below the Ponceau, at the Trinity,” pursued

Liénarde, “there was a passion performed, and without any

speaking.”

“How well I remember that!” exclaimed Gisquette; “God on the

cross, and the two thieves on the right and the left.” Here the

young gossips, growing warm at the memory of the entrance of

monsieur the legate, both began to talk at once.

“And, further on, at the Painters’ Gate, there were other

personages, very richly clad.”

“And at the fountain of Saint-Innocent, that huntsman, who was

chasing a hind with great clamor of dogs and hunting-horns.”

“And, at the Paris slaughter-houses, stages, representing the

fortress of Dieppe!”

“And when the legate passed, you remember, Gisquette? they made

the assault, and the English all had their throats cut.”

“And against the gate of the Châtelet, there were very fine

personages!”

“And on the Port au Change, which was all draped above!”

“And when the legate passed, they let fly on the bridge more than

two hundred sorts of birds; wasn’t it beautiful, Liénarde?”

“It will be better to-day,” finally resumed their interlocutor,

who seemed to listen to them with impatience.

“Do you promise us that this mystery will be fine?” said

Gisquette.

“Without doubt,” he replied; then he added, with a certain

emphasis,—“I am the author of it, damsels.”

“Truly?” said the young girls, quite taken aback.

“Truly!” replied the poet, bridling a little; “that is, to say,

there are two of us; Jehan Marchand, who has sawed the planks and

erected the framework of the theatre and the woodwork; and I, who

have made the piece. My name is Pierre Gringoire.”

The author of the “Cid” could not have said “Pierre Corneille”

with more pride.

Our readers have been able to observe, that a certain amount of

time must have already elapsed from the moment when Jupiter had

retired beneath the tapestry to the instant when the author of

the new morality had thus abruptly revealed himself to the

innocent admiration of Gisquette and Liénarde. Remarkable fact:

that whole crowd, so tumultuous but a few moments before, now

waited amiably on the word of the comedian; which proves the

eternal truth, still experienced every day in our theatres, that

the best means of making the public wait patiently is to assure

them that one is about to begin instantly.

However, scholar Johannes had not fallen asleep.

“Holà hé!” he shouted suddenly, in the midst of the peaceable

waiting which had followed the tumult. “Jupiter, Madame the

Virgin, buffoons of the devil! are you jeering at us? The piece!

the piece! commence or we will commence again!”

This was all that was needed.

The music of high and low instruments immediately became audible

from the interior of the stage; the tapestry was raised; four

personages, in motley attire and painted faces, emerged from it,

climbed the steep ladder of the theatre, and, arrived upon the

upper platform, arranged themselves in a line before the public,

whom they saluted with profound reverences; then the symphony

ceased.

The mystery was about to begin.

The four personages, after having reaped a rich reward of

applause for their reverences, began, in the midst of profound

silence, a prologue, which we gladly spare the reader. Moreover,

as happens in our own day, the public was more occupied with the

costumes that the actors wore than with the roles that they were

enacting; and, in truth, they were right. All four were dressed

in parti-colored robes of yellow and white, which were

distinguished from each other only by the nature of the stuff;

the first was of gold and silver brocade; the second, of silk;

the third, of wool; the fourth, of linen. The first of these

personages carried in his right hand a sword; the second, two

golden keys; the third, a pair of scales; the fourth, a spade:

and, in order to aid sluggish minds which would not have seen

clearly through the transparency of these attributes, there was

to be read, in large, black letters, on the hem of the robe of

brocade, MY NAME IS NOBILITY; on the hem of the silken robe, MY

NAME IS CLERGY; on the hem of the woolen robe, MY NAME IS

MERCHANDISE; on the hem of the linen robe, MY NAME IS LABOR. The

sex of the two male characters was briefly indicated to every

judicious spectator, by their shorter robes, and by the cap which

they wore on their heads; while the two female characters, less

briefly clad, were covered with hoods.

Much ill-will would also have been required, not to comprehend,

through the medium of the poetry of the prologue, that Labor was

wedded to Merchandise, and Clergy to Nobility, and that the two

happy couples possessed in common a magnificent golden dolphin,

which they desired to adjudge to the fairest only. So they were

roaming about the world seeking and searching for this beauty,

and, after having successively rejected the Queen of Golconda,

the Princess of Trebizonde, the daughter of the Grand Khan of

Tartary, etc., Labor and Clergy, Nobility and Merchandise, had

come to rest upon the marble table of the Palais de Justice, and

to utter, in the presence of the honest audience, as many

sentences and maxims as could then be dispensed at the Faculty of

Arts, at examinations, sophisms, determinances, figures, and

acts, where the masters took their degrees.

All this was, in fact, very fine.

Nevertheless, in that throng, upon which the four allegories vied

with each other in pouring out floods of metaphors, there was no

ear more attentive, no heart that palpitated more, not an eye was

more haggard, no neck more outstretched, than the eye, the ear,

the neck, and the heart of the author, of the poet, of that brave

Pierre Gringoire, who had not been able to resist, a moment

before, the joy of telling his name to two pretty girls. He had

retreated a few paces from them, behind his pillar, and there he

listened, looked, enjoyed. The amiable applause which had greeted

the beginning of his prologue was still echoing in his bosom, and

he was completely absorbed in that species of ecstatic

contemplation with which an author beholds his ideas fall, one by

one, from the mouth of the actor into the vast silence of the

audience. Worthy Pierre Gringoire!

It pains us to say it, but this first ecstasy was speedily

disturbed. Hardly had Gringoire raised this intoxicating cup of

joy and triumph to his lips, when a drop of bitterness was

mingled with it.

A tattered mendicant, who could not collect any coins, lost as he

was in the midst of the crowd, and who had not probably found

sufficient indemnity in the pockets of his neighbors, had hit

upon the idea of perching himself upon some conspicuous point, in

order to attract looks and alms. He had, accordingly, hoisted

himself, during the first verses of the prologue, with the aid of

the pillars of the reserve gallery, to the cornice which ran

round the balustrade at its lower edge; and there he had seated

himself, soliciting the attention and the pity of the multitude,

with his rags and a hideous sore which covered his right arm.

However, he uttered not a word.

The silence which he preserved allowed the prologue to proceed

without hindrance, and no perceptible disorder would have ensued,

if ill-luck had not willed that the scholar Joannes should catch

sight, from the heights of his pillar, of the mendicant and his

grimaces. A wild fit of laughter took possession of the young

scamp, who, without caring that he was interrupting the

spectacle, and disturbing the universal composure, shouted

boldly,—

“Look! see that sickly creature asking alms!”

Any one who has thrown a stone into a frog pond, or fired a shot

into a covey of birds, can form an idea of the effect produced by

these incongruous words, in the midst of the general attention.

It made Gringoire shudder as though it had been an electric

shock. The prologue stopped short, and all heads turned

tumultuously towards the beggar, who, far from being disconcerted

by this, saw, in this incident, a good opportunity for reaping

his harvest, and who began to whine in a doleful way, half

closing his eyes the while,—“Charity, please!”

“Well—upon my soul,” resumed Joannes, “it’s Clopin Trouillefou!

Holà hé, my friend, did your sore bother you on the leg, that you

have transferred it to your arm?” So saying, with the dexterity

of a monkey, he flung a bit of silver into the gray felt hat

which the beggar held in his ailing arm. The mendicant received

both the alms and the sarcasm without wincing, and continued, in

lamentable tones,—

“Charity, please!”

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. On recovering from his first

stupefaction, he bestirred himself to shout, to the four

personages on the stage, “Go on! What the devil!—go on!”—without

even deigning to cast a glance of disdain upon the two

interrupters.

At that moment, he felt some one pluck at the hem of his surtout;

he turned round, and not without ill-humor, and found

considerable difficulty in smiling; but he was obliged to do so,

nevertheless. It was the pretty arm of Gisquette la Gencienne,

which, passed through the railing, was soliciting his attention

in this manner.

“Monsieur,” said the young girl, “are they going to continue?”

“Of course,” replied Gringoire, a good deal shocked by the

question.

“In that case, messire,” she resumed, “would you have the

courtesy to explain to me—”

“What they are about to say?” interrupted Gringoire. “Well,

listen.”

“No,” said Gisquette, “but what they have said so far.”

Gringoire started, like a man whose wound has been probed to the

quick.

“A plague on the stupid and dull-witted little girl!” he

muttered, between his teeth.

From that moment forth, Gisquette was nothing to him.

In the meantime, the actors had obeyed his injunction, and the

public, seeing that they were beginning to speak again, began

once more to listen, not without having lost many beauties in the

sort of soldered joint which was formed between the two portions

of the piece thus abruptly cut short. Gringoire commented on it

bitterly to himself. Nevertheless, tranquillity was gradually

restored, the scholar held his peace, the mendicant counted over

some coins in his hat, and the piece resumed the upper hand.

It was, in fact, a very fine work, and one which, as it seems to

us, might be put to use to-day, by the aid of a little

rearrangement. The exposition, rather long and rather empty, that

is to say, according to the rules, was simple; and Gringoire, in

the candid sanctuary of his own conscience, admired its

clearness. As the reader may surmise, the four allegorical

personages were somewhat weary with having traversed the three

sections of the world, without having found suitable opportunity

for getting rid of their golden dolphin. Thereupon a eulogy of

the marvellous fish, with a thousand delicate allusions to the

young betrothed of Marguerite of Flanders, then sadly cloistered

in at Amboise, and without a suspicion that Labor and Clergy,

Nobility and Merchandise had just made the circuit of the world

in his behalf. The said dauphin was then young, was handsome, was

stout, and, above all (magnificent origin of all royal virtues),

he was the son of the Lion of France. I declare that this bold

metaphor is admirable, and that the natural history of the

theatre, on a day of allegory and royal marriage songs, is not in

the least startled by a dolphin who is the son of a lion. It is

precisely these rare and Pindaric mixtures which prove the poet’s

enthusiasm. Nevertheless, in order to play the part of critic

also, the poet might have developed this beautiful idea in

something less than two hundred lines. It is true that the

mystery was to last from noon until four o’clock, in accordance

with the orders of monsieur the provost, and that it was

necessary to say something. Besides, the people listened

patiently.

All at once, in the very middle of a quarrel between Mademoiselle

Merchandise and Madame Nobility, at the moment when Monsieur

Labor was giving utterance to this wonderful line,—

In forest ne’er was seen a more triumphant beast;

the door of the reserved gallery which had hitherto remained so

inopportunely closed, opened still more inopportunely; and the

ringing voice of the usher announced abruptly, “His eminence,

Monseigneur the Cardinal de Bourbon.”