PIERRE GRINGOIRE.
Nevertheless, as be them, the and by his were by his words; and when he that conclusion: “As soon as his eminence, the cardinal, arrives, we will begin,” his voice was in a of hooting.
“Begin instantly! The mystery! the immediately!” the people. And above all the voices, that of Johannes de Molendino was audible, the like the fife’s serenade: “Commence instantly!” the scholar.
“Down with Jupiter and the Cardinal de Bourbon!” Robin Poussepain and the other in the window.
“The this very instant!” the crowd; “this very instant! the and the rope for the comedians, and the cardinal!”
Poor Jupiter, haggard, frightened, his rouge, his thunderbolt, took his cap in his hand; then he and and stammered: “His eminence—the ambassadors—Madame Marguerite of Flanders—.” He did not know what to say. In truth, he was of being hung.
Hung by the for waiting, by the for not having waited, he saw the two only an abyss; that is to say, a gallows.
Luckily, some one came to him from his embarrassment, and assume the responsibility.
An who was the railing, in the free space around the marble table, and no one had yet of, since his long, thin was from every by the of the against which he was leaning; this individual, we say, tall, gaunt, pallid, blond, still young, although already about the and cheeks, with and a mouth, in of black serge, and with age, approached the marble table, and a to the sufferer. But the other was so that he did not see him. The new another step.
“Jupiter,” said he, “my dear Jupiter!”
The other did not hear.
At last, the tall blond, out of patience, almost in his face,—
“Michel Giborne!”
“Who calls me?” said Jupiter, as though with a start.
“I,” the person in black.
“Ah!” said Jupiter.
“Begin at once,” on the other. “Satisfy the populace; I to the bailiff, who will the cardinal.”
Jupiter once more.
“Messeigneurs the bourgeois,” he cried, at the top of his to the crowd, which to him, “we are going to at once.”
“Evoe Jupiter! Plaudite cives! All hail, Jupiter! Applaud, citizens!” the scholars.
“Noël! Noël! good, good,” the people.
The hand was deafening, and Jupiter had already under his tapestry, while the still with acclamations.
In the meanwhile, the who had so the into calm, as our old and dear Corneille puts it, had to the half-shadow of his pillar, and would, no doubt, have there, motionless, and mute as before, had he not been by the by two women, who, in the of the spectators, had noticed his with Michel Giborne-Jupiter.
“Master,” said one of them, making him a to approach.
“Hold your tongue, my dear Liénarde,” said her neighbor, pretty, fresh, and very brave, in of being 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 approached the railing.
“What would you have of me, damsels?” he asked, with alacrity.
“Oh! nothing,” Liénarde, in great confusion; “it is my neighbor, Gisquette la Gencienne, who to speak with you.”
“Not so,” Gisquette, blushing; “it was Liénarde who called you master; I only told her to say messire.”
The two girls their eyes. The man, who asked nothing than to enter into conversation, looked at them with a smile.
“So you have nothing to say to me, damsels?”
“Oh! nothing at all,” Gisquette.
“Nothing,” said Liénarde.
The tall, light-haired man a step; but the two had no mind to let their prize.
“Messire,” said Gisquette, with the of an open sluice, or of a woman who has up her mind, “do you know that soldier who is to play the part of Madame the Virgin in the mystery?”
“You the part of Jupiter?” the stranger.
“Hé! yes,” said Liénarde, “isn’t she stupid? So you know Jupiter?”
“Michel Giborne?” the unknown; “yes, madam.”
“He has a beard!” said Liénarde.
“Will what they are about to say here be fine?” Gisquette, timidly.
“Very fine, mademoiselle,” the unknown, without the 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,” Liénarde.
A ensued—broken by the stranger.
“It is a perfectly new morality, and one which has yet been played.”
“Then it is not the same one,” said Gisquette, “that was two years ago, on the day of the entrance of the legate, and where three played the parts—”
“Of sirens,” said Liénarde.
“And all naked,” added the man.
Liénarde her modestly. Gisquette at her and did the same. He continued, with a smile,—
“It was a very thing to see. To-day it is a for Madame the Demoiselle of Flanders.”
“Will they sing songs?” Gisquette.
“Fie!” said the stranger, “in a morality? you must not styles. If it were a farce, well and good.”
“That is a pity,” Gisquette. “That day, at the Ponceau Fountain, there were wild men and women, who and many aspects, as they sang little and bergerettes.”
“That which is for a legate,” returned the stranger, with a good of dryness, “is not for a princess.”
“And them,” Liénarde, “played many instruments, making great melodies.”
“And for the of the passers-by,” Gisquette, “the through three mouths, wine, milk, and hippocrass, of which every one who wished.”
“And a little the Ponceau, at the Trinity,” Liénarde, “there was a performed, and without any speaking.”
“How well I that!” Gisquette; “God on the cross, and the two on the right and the left.” Here the gossips, warm at the memory of the entrance of the legate, to talk at once.
“And, on, at the Painters’ Gate, there were other personages, very clad.”
“And at the of Saint-Innocent, that huntsman, who was a with great of dogs and hunting-horns.”
“And, at the Paris slaughter-houses, stages, the of Dieppe!”
“And when the passed, you remember, Gisquette? they the assault, and the English all had their cut.”
“And against the gate of the Châtelet, there were very personages!”
“And on the Port au Change, which was all above!”
“And when the passed, they let on the more than two hundred of birds; wasn’t it beautiful, Liénarde?”
“It will be to-day,” their interlocutor, who to to them with impatience.
“Do you promise us that this will be fine?” said Gisquette.
“Without doubt,” he replied; then he added, with a emphasis,—“I am the author of it, damsels.”
“Truly?” said the girls, taken aback.
“Truly!” the poet, a little; “that is, to say, there are two of us; Jehan Marchand, who has the and the of the theatre and the woodwork; and I, who have the piece. My name is Pierre Gringoire.”
The author of the “Cid” not have said “Pierre Corneille” with more pride.
Our readers have been able to observe, that a amount of time must have already from the moment when Jupiter had retired the to the when the author of the new had thus himself to the of Gisquette and Liénarde. Remarkable fact: that whole crowd, so but a moments before, now waited on the word of the comedian; which proves the truth, still every day in our theatres, that the best means of making the public wait is to them that one is about to instantly.
However, Johannes had not asleep.
“Holà hé!” he suddenly, in the of the waiting which had the tumult. “Jupiter, Madame the Virgin, of the devil! are you at us? The piece! the piece! or we will again!”
This was all that was needed.
The music of high and low from the of the stage; the was raised; four personages, in and painted faces, from it, the of the theatre, and, upon the upper platform, themselves in a line the public, they with reverences; then the ceased.
The was about to begin.
The four personages, after having a rich of for their reverences, began, in the of silence, a prologue, which we the reader. Moreover, as in our own day, the public was more with the that the actors than with the that they were enacting; and, in truth, they were right. All four were in parti-colored of yellow and white, which were from each other only by the nature of the stuff; the was of gold and brocade; the second, of silk; the third, of wool; the fourth, of linen. The of these in his right hand a sword; the second, two keys; the third, a pair of scales; the fourth, a spade: and, in order to minds which would not have through the of these attributes, there was to be read, in large, black letters, on the of the of brocade, MY NAME IS NOBILITY; on the of the robe, MY NAME IS CLERGY; on the of the robe, MY NAME IS MERCHANDISE; on the of the robe, MY NAME IS LABOR. The of the two male was to every spectator, by their robes, and by the cap which they on their heads; while the two female characters, less clad, were with hoods.
Much ill-will would also have been required, not to comprehend, through the medium of the of the prologue, that Labor was to Merchandise, and Clergy to Nobility, and that the two happy in common a dolphin, which they to to the only. So they were about the world and for this beauty, and, after having rejected the Queen of Golconda, the Princess of Trebizonde, the of the Grand Khan of Tartary, etc., Labor and Clergy, Nobility and Merchandise, had come to upon the marble table of the Palais de Justice, and to utter, in the presence of the audience, as many and as then be 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 with each other in out of metaphors, there was no ear more attentive, no that more, not an was more haggard, no more outstretched, than the eye, the ear, the neck, and the of the author, of the poet, of that Pierre Gringoire, who had not been able to resist, a moment before, the of telling his name to two girls. He had a from them, his pillar, and there he listened, looked, enjoyed. The which had the of his was still in his bosom, and he was in that of with which an author his ideas fall, one by one, from the mouth of the actor into the of the audience. Worthy Pierre Gringoire!
It pains us to say it, but this was disturbed. Hardly had Gringoire this cup of and to his lips, when a of was with it.
A mendicant, who not any coins, as he was in the of the crowd, and who had not in the pockets of his neighbors, had upon the idea of himself upon some point, in order to looks and alms. He had, accordingly, himself, the of the prologue, with the of the of the gallery, to the which ran the at its edge; and there he had seated himself, the attention and the of the multitude, with his and a which his right arm. However, he not a word.
The which he allowed the to without hindrance, and no would have ensued, if ill-luck had not that the Joannes should catch sight, from the of his pillar, of the and his grimaces. A wild fit of took of the scamp, who, without that he was the spectacle, and the composure, boldly,—
“Look! see that alms!”
Any one who has a into a pond, or a into a of birds, can an idea of the produced by these words, in the of the attention. It Gringoire as though it had been an electric shock. The stopped short, and all the beggar, who, from being by this, saw, in this incident, a good opportunity for his harvest, and who to in a way, his the while,—“Charity, please!”
“Well—upon my soul,” Joannes, “it’s Clopin Trouillefou! Holà hé, my friend, did your you on the leg, that you have transferred it to your arm?” So saying, with the of a monkey, he a of into the which the in his arm. The the and the without wincing, and continued, in tones,—
“Charity, please!”
This the attention of the audience; and a number of spectators, among them Robin Poussepain, and all the at their head, this duet, which the scholar, with his voice, and the had just in the middle of the prologue.
Gringoire was displeased. On from his stupefaction, he himself to shout, to the four on the stage, “Go on! What the devil!—go on!”—without to a of upon the two interrupters.
At that moment, he some one at the of his surtout; he round, and not without ill-humor, and in smiling; but he was to do so, nevertheless. It was the arm of Gisquette la Gencienne, which, passed through the railing, was his attention in this manner.
“Monsieur,” said the girl, “are they going to continue?”
“Of course,” Gringoire, a good by the question.
“In that case, messire,” she resumed, “would you have the to to me—”
“What they are about to say?” Gringoire. “Well, listen.”
“No,” said Gisquette, “but what they have said so far.”
Gringoire started, like a man has been to the quick.
“A on the and dull-witted little girl!” he muttered, his teeth.
From that moment forth, Gisquette was nothing to him.
In the meantime, the actors had his injunction, and the public, that they were to speak again, once more to listen, not without having many in the of joint which was the two of the piece thus cut short. Gringoire on it to himself. Nevertheless, was restored, the his peace, the over some in his hat, and the piece the upper hand.
It was, in fact, a very work, and one which, as it to us, might be put to use to-day, by the of a little rearrangement. The exposition, long and empty, that is to say, according to the rules, was simple; and Gringoire, in the of his own conscience, its clearness. As the reader may surmise, the four were with having the three of the world, without having opportunity for of their dolphin. Thereupon a of the fish, with a thousand to the of Marguerite of Flanders, then sadly in at Amboise, and without a that Labor and Clergy, Nobility and Merchandise had just the of the world in his behalf. The said was then young, was handsome, was stout, and, above all (magnificent of all virtues), he was the son of the Lion of France. I that this is admirable, and that the natural history of the theatre, on a day of and marriage songs, is not in the least by a who is the son of a lion. It is these and Pindaric which prove the poet’s enthusiasm. Nevertheless, in order to play the part of also, the might have this idea in something less than two hundred lines. It is true that the was to last from until four o’clock, in with the orders of the provost, and that it was necessary to say something. Besides, the people patiently.
All at once, in the very middle of a Mademoiselle Merchandise and Madame Nobility, at the moment when Monsieur Labor was to this line,—
In ne’er was a more beast;
the door of the which had so closed, opened still more inopportunely; and the voice of the abruptly, “His eminence, Monseigneur the Cardinal de Bourbon.”
