THE BROKEN JUG.
After having for some time at the top of his speed, without whither, his against many a corner, many a gutter, many an alley, many a court, many a square, and passage through all the of the passages of the Halles, in his panic terror what the Latin of the calls via, et viaria, our for of in the place, and in the second, he had been collared, after a fashion, by a which had just to his mind. “It me, Master Pierre Gringoire,” he said to himself, his to his brow, “that you are like a madman. The little are no less of you than you are of them. It me, I say, that you the of their shoes southward, while you were northward. Now, one of two things, either they have taken flight, and the pallet, which they must have in their terror, is that in search of which you have been since morning, and which the Virgin sends you, in order to you for having a in her honor, by and mummeries; or the children have not taken flight, and in that case they have put the to the pallet, and that is the good fire which you need to cheer, dry, and warm you. In either case, good fire or good bed, that is a gift from heaven. The Virgin Marie who at the of the Rue Mauconseil, only have Eustache Moubon die for that purpose; and it is on your part to thus zigzag, like a Picard a Frenchman, you what you you; and you are a fool!”
Then he his steps, and his way and searching, with his nose to the wind and his ears on the alert, he to the again, but in vain. There was nothing to be but of houses, closed courts, and of streets, in the of which he and incessantly, being more and in this of than he would have been in the of the Hôtel Tournelles. At length he patience, and solemnly: “Cursed be roads! ’tis the who has them in the shape of his pitchfork!”
This him a little solace, and a of which he of at that moment, at the of a long and narrow lane, the of his tone. “God be praised!” said he, “There it is yonder! There is my burning.” And himself to the pilot who by night, “Salve,” he added piously, “salve, stella!”
Did he address this of to the Holy Virgin, or to the pallet? We are unable to say.
He had taken but a steps in the long street, which downwards, was unpaved, and more and more and steep, when he noticed a very thing. It was not deserted; here and there along its and masses, all their the light which at the end of the street, like those which along by night, from to of grass, the shepherd’s fire.
Nothing one so as not being able to the place where one’s pocket is situated. Gringoire to advance, and had soon joined that one of the which along most indolently, the others. On near, he that it was nothing else than a in a bowl, who was along on his two hands like a field-spider which has but two left. At the moment when he passed close to this of with a countenance, it him a voice: “La mancia, signor! la mancia!”[10]
“Deuce take you,” said Gringoire, “and me with you, if I know what you mean!”
And he passed on.
He another of these masses, and it. It was an man, and crippled, and and to such a that the of and which him, gave him the air of a mason’s on the march. Gringoire, who liked and comparisons, him in to the of Vulcan.
This him as he passed, but stopping his on a level with Gringoire’s chin, like a dish, while he in the latter’s ears: “Señor cabellero, un de pan!”[11]
“It appears,” said Gringoire, “that this one can also talk; but ’tis a language, and he is more than I if he it.” Then, his brow, in a of ideas: “By the way, what the did they this with their Esmeralda?”
He was to his pace, but for the third time something his way. This something or, rather, some one was a man, a little with a bearded, Jewish face, who, away in the space about him with a stick, and by a large dog, through his nose with a Hungarian accent: “Facitote caritatem!”
“Well, now,” said Gringoire, “here’s one at last who speaks a Christian tongue. I must have a very aspect, since they ask of me in the present condition of my purse. My friend,” and he the man, “I my last shirt last week; that is to say, since you only the language of Cicero: Vendidi chemisam.”
That said, he his upon the man, and his way. But the man to his at the same time; and, behold! the and the man, in his bowl, came up on their in great haste, and with great of bowl and crutches, upon the pavement. Then all three, each other at Gringoire’s heels, to sing their song to him,—
“Caritatem!” the man.
“La mancia!” the in the bowl.
And the man took up the phrase by repeating: “Un de pan!”
Gringoire stopped up his ears. “Oh, tower of Babel!” he exclaimed.
He set out to run. The man ran! The man ran! The in the bowl ran!
And then, in as he into the street, in bowls, men and men, about him, and men with one arm, and with one eye, and the with their sores, some from little adjacent, some from the air-holes of cellars, howling, bellowing, yelping, all and halting, all themselves the light, and up in the mire, like after a shower.
Gringoire, still by his three persecutors, and not very well what was to of him, along in terror among them, out for the lame, over the in bowls, with his in that ant-hill of men, like the English captain who got in the of a of crabs.
The idea to him of making an to his steps. But it was too late. This whole had closed in him, and his three him fast. So he proceeded, by this flood, by fear, and by a which all this into a of dream.
At last he the end of the street. It opened upon an place, where a thousand lights in the of night. Gringoire thither, to escape, by the of his legs, from the three who had him.
“Onde vas, hombre?” (Where are you going, my man?) the cripple, away his crutches, and after him with the best that a step upon the of Paris.
In the meantime the man, upon his feet, Gringoire with his iron bowl, and the man in his with eyes!
“Where am I?” said the poet.
“In the Court of Miracles,” a fourth spectre, who had them.
“Upon my soul,” Gringoire, “I do the who see, and the who walk, but where is the Saviour?”
They by a of laughter.
The his about him. It was, in truth, that Cour Miracles, an man had at such an hour; the magic circle where the officers of the Châtelet and the of the provostship, who thither, in morsels; a city of thieves, a on the of Paris; a sewer, from which every morning, and returned every night to crouch, that of vices, of and which always in the of capitals; a hive, to which returned at nightfall, with their booty, all the of the social order; a hospital where the bohemian, the monk, the scholar, the ne’er-do-wells of all nations, Spaniards, Italians, Germans,—of all religions, Jews, Christians, Mahometans, idolaters, with painted sores, by day, were by night into brigands; an dressing-room, in a word, where, at that epoch, the actors of that comedy, which theft, prostitution, and play upon the of Paris, and undressed.
It was a place, and paved, like all the of Paris at that date. Fires, around which groups, here and there. Every one was going, coming, and shouting. Shrill was to be heard, the of children, the voices of women. The hands and of this throng, black against the background, against it a thousand gestures. At times, upon the ground, where the light of the fires, with large, shadows, one a dog passing, which a man, a man who a dog. The limits of and in this city, as in a pandemonium. Men, women, beasts, age, sex, health, maladies, all to be in common among these people; all together, they mingled, confounded, superposed; each one there in all.
The and of the fire permitted Gringoire to distinguish, his trouble, all around the place, a of houses, wormeaten, shrivelled, façades, each with one or two windows, to him, in the darkness, like of old women, in a circle, and crabbed, as they looked on at the Witches’ Sabbath.
It was like a new world, unknown, of, misshapen, creeping, swarming, fantastic.
Gringoire, more and more terrified, by the three as by three of tongs, by a of other which and around him, Gringoire to his presence of mind, in order to it was a Saturday. But his were vain; the of his memory and of his was broken; and, everything, what he saw and what he felt, he put to himself this question,—
“If I exist, this exist? if this exists, do I exist?”
At that moment, a in the which him, “Let’s take him to the king! let’s take him to the king!”
“Holy Virgin!” Gringoire, “the king here must be a ram.”
“To the king! to the king!” all voices.
They him off. Each with the other in his upon him. But the three did not their and him from the rest, howling, “He to us!”
The poet’s already its last in this struggle.
While the place, his vanished. After taking a steps, the of returned to him. He to to the of the place. At the moment there had from his poet’s head, or, and prosaically, from his empty stomach, a mist, a vapor, so to speak, which, objects and himself, permitted him to catch a of them only in the of nightmare,—in those of which every outline, objects into groups, into chimeras, and men into phantoms. Little by little, this was succeeded by a less and view. Reality its way to the light around him, his eyes, his feet, and demolished, by bit, all that with which he had, at first, himself to be surrounded. He was to that he was not walking in the Styx, but in mud, that he was not by demons, but by thieves; that it was not his which was in question, but his life (since he that conciliator, which places itself so the and the man—a purse). In short, on the more closely, and with more coolness, he from the witches’ to the dram-shop.
The Cour Miracles was, in fact, a dram-shop; but a brigand’s dram-shop, as much with blood as with wine.
The which presented itself to his eyes, when his deposited him at the end of his trip, was not to him to poetry, to the of hell. It was more than the and of the tavern. Were we not in the century, we would say that Gringoire had from Michael Angelo to Callot.
Around a great fire which on a large, flagstone, the of which had red-hot the of a tripod, which was empty for the moment, some tables were placed, here and there, haphazard, no of a turn having to their parallelism, or to see to it that they did not make too angles. Upon these tables of and beer, and these were many visages, with the fire and the wine. There was a man with a and a face, a woman of the town, and brawny. There was a of soldier, a “naquois,” as the runs, who was as he the from his wound, and the from his and knee, which had been since in a thousand ligatures. On the other hand, there was a fellow, preparing with and beef’s blood, his “leg of God,” for the next day. Two tables on, a palmer, with his pilgrim’s complete, was the of the Holy Queen, not the and the drawl. Further on, a was taking a lesson in from an old pretender, who was him in the art of at the mouth, by a of soap. Beside him, a man with the was of his swelling, and making four or five female thieves, who were at the same table, over a child who had been that evening, their noses. All which, two centuries later, “seemed so to the court,” as Sauval says, “that they as a to the king, and as an to the of Night, into four parts and on the theatre of the Petit-Bourbon.” “Never,” an of 1653, “have the of the Court of Miracles been more presented. Benserade prepared us for it by some very verses.”
Loud everywhere, and songs. Each one his own course, and swearing, without to his neighbor. Pots clinked, and up at the of the pots, and the rents in the rags.
A big dog, seated on his tail, at the fire. Some children were in this orgy. The child and cried. Another, a big boy four years of age, seated with dangling, upon a bench that was too high for him, a table that to his chin, and not a word. A third, out upon the table with his finger, the melted which from a candle. Last of all, a little in the mud, almost in a cauldron, which he was with a tile, and from which he was a that would have Stradivarius swoon.
Near the fire was a hogshead, and on the a beggar. This was the king on his throne.
The three who had Gringoire in their him in of this hogshead, and the entire for a moment, with the of the by the child.
Gringoire neither breathe his eyes.
“Hombre, tu sombrero!” said one of the three knaves, in he was, and, he had the meaning, the other had his hat—a headgear, it is true, but still good on a sunny day or when there was but little rain. Gringoire sighed.
Meanwhile the king him, from the of his cask,—
“Who is this rogue?”
Gringoire shuddered. That voice, although by menace, to him another voice, which, that very morning, had the to his mystery, by drawling, nasally, in the of the audience, “Charity, please!” He his head. It was Clopin Trouillefou.
Clopin Trouillefou, in his insignia, neither one more one less. The upon his arm had already disappeared. He in his hand one of those of of white leather, which police then used to the crowd, and which were called boullayes. On his he a of headgear, and closed at the top. But it was difficult to make out it was a child’s cap or a king’s crown, the two so a to each other.
Meanwhile Gringoire, without why, had some hope, on in the King of the Cour Miracles his of the Grand Hall.
“Master,” he; “monseigneur—sire—how ought I to address you?” he said at length, having the point of his crescendo, and neither how to higher, to again.
“Monseigneur, his majesty, or comrade, call me what you please. But make haste. What have you to say in your own defence?”
“In your own defence?” Gringoire, “that me.” He resumed, stuttering, “I am he, who this morning—”
“By the devil’s claws!” Clopin, “your name, knave, and nothing more. Listen. You are in the presence of three powerful sovereigns: myself, Clopin Trouillefou, King of Thunes, to the Grand Coësre, of the Realm of Argot; Mathias Hunyadi Spicali, Duke of Egypt and of Bohemia, the old yellow you see yonder, with a dish his head; Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of Galilee, that who is not to us but a wench. We are your judges. You have entered the Kingdom of Argot, without being an argotier; you have the of our city. You must be unless you are a capon, a franc-mitou or a rifodé; that is to say, in the of folks,—a thief, a beggar, or a vagabond. Are you anything of that sort? Justify yourself; your titles.”
“Alas!” said Gringoire, “I have not that honor. I am the author—”
“That is sufficient,” Trouillefou, without him to finish. “You are going to be hanged. ’Tis a very matter, and bourgeois! as you our people in your abode, so we you in ours! The law which you apply to vagabonds, apply to you. ’Tis your fault if it is harsh. One must the of an man above the now and then; that the thing honorable. Come, friend, your among these damsels. I am going to have you to the vagabonds, and you are to give them your to drink your health. If you have any to go through with, there’s a very good God the Father in that yonder, in stone, which we from Saint-Pierre Bœufs. You have four minutes in which to your at his head.”
The was formidable.
“Well said, upon my soul! Clopin Trouillefou like the Holy Father the Pope!” the Emperor of Galilee, his pot in order to up his table.
“Messeigneurs, emperors, and kings,” said Gringoire (for I know not how, had returned to him, and he spoke with resolution), “don’t think of such a thing; my name is Pierre Gringoire. I am the was presented this in the of the Courts.”
“Ah! so it was you, master!” said Clopin. “I was there, la tête Dieu! Well! comrade, is that any reason, you us to death this morning, that you should not be this evening?”
“I shall in out of it,” said Gringoire to himself. Nevertheless, he one more effort: “I don’t see why are not with vagabonds,” said he. “Vagabond, Æsopus was; Homerus was a beggar; Mercurius was a thief—”
Clopin him: “I that you are trying to us with your jargon. Zounds! let be hung, and don’t up such a over it!”
“Pardon me, monseigneur, the King of Thunes,” Gringoire, the ground by foot. “It is trouble—One moment!—Listen to me—You are not going to me without having me”—
His unlucky voice was, in fact, in the which rose around him. The little boy away at his with more than ever; and, to all, an old woman had just on the a frying-pan of grease, which away on the fire with a noise to the of a of children in of a masker.
In the meantime, Clopin Trouillefou appeared to a with the Duke of Egypt, and the Emperor of Galilee, who was drunk. Then he shrilly: “Silence!” and, as the and the frying-pan did not him, and their duet, he jumped from his hogshead, gave a to the boiler, which rolled ten away the child with it, a to the frying-pan, which in the fire with all its grease, and his throne, without himself about the of the child, or the of the old woman, supper was away in a white flame.
Trouillefou a sign, and the duke, the emperor, and the passed masters of pickpockets, and the robbers, came and themselves around him in a horseshoe, of which Gringoire, still by the body, the centre. It was a of rags, tatters, tinsel, pitchforks, axes, with intoxication, huge, arms, sordid, dull, and stupid. In the of this Round Table of beggary, Clopin Trouillefou,—as the of this senate, as the king of this peerage, as the of this conclave,—dominated; by of the of his hogshead, and next by of an indescribable, haughty, fierce, and air, which his to flash, and in his profile the type of the of vagabonds. One would have him a a of swine.
“Listen,” said he to Gringoire, his with his hand; “I don’t see why you should not be hung. It is true that it to be to you; and it is very natural, for you are not to it. You for yourselves a great idea of the thing. After all, we don’t wish you any harm. Here is a means of from your for the moment. Will you one of us?”
The reader can judge of the which this produced upon Gringoire, who life away from him, and who was to his upon it. He at it again with energy.
“Certainly I will, and right heartily,” said he.
“Do you consent,” Clopin, “to among the people of the knife?”
“Of the knife, precisely,” Gringoire.
“You as a of the free bourgeoisie?”[12] added the King of Thunes.
“Of the free bourgeoisie.”
“Subject of the Kingdom of Argot?”
“Of the Kingdom of Argot[13].”
“A vagabond?”
“A vagabond.”
“In your soul?”
“In my soul.”
“I must call your attention to the fact,” the king, “that you will be all the same.”
“The devil!” said the poet.
“Only,” Clopin imperturbably, “you will be later on, with more ceremony, at the of the good city of Paris, on a gibbet, and by men. That is a consolation.”
“Just so,” Gringoire.
“There are other advantages. In your quality of a high-toned sharper, you will not have to pay the taxes on mud, or the poor, or lanterns, to which the of Paris are subject.”
“So be it,” said the poet. “I agree. I am a vagabond, a thief, a sharper, a man of the knife, anything you please; and I am all that already, monsieur, King of Thunes, for I am a philosopher; et in philosophia, in continentur,—all are in philosophy, all men in the philosopher, as you know.”
The King of Thunes scowled.
“What do you take me for, my friend? What Hungarian Jew are you at us? I don’t know Hebrew. One isn’t a Jew one is a bandit. I don’t any longer. I’m above that; I kill. Cut-throat, yes; cutpurse, no.”
Gringoire to in some these words, which more and more jerky.
“I ask your pardon, monseigneur. It is not Hebrew; ’tis Latin.”
“I tell you,” Clopin angrily, “that I’m not a Jew, and that I’ll have you hung, of the synagogue, like that little shopkeeper of Judea, who is by your side, and I of to a one of these days, like the coin that he is!”
So saying, he pointed his at the little, Hungarian Jew who had Gringoire with his caritatem, and who, no other language with the King of Thunes’s ill-humor overflow upon him.
At length Monsieur Clopin down.
“So you will be a vagabond, you knave?” he said to our poet.
“Of course,” the poet.
“Willing is not all,” said the Clopin; “good will doesn’t put one the more into the soup, and ’tis good for nothing to go to Paradise with; now, Paradise and the thieves’ are two different things. In order to be among the thieves,[14] you must prove that you are good for something, and for that purpose, you must search the manikin.”
“I’ll search anything you like,” said Gringoire.
Clopin a sign. Several themselves from the circle, and returned a moment later. They two thick posts, at their in supports, which them upon the ground; to the upper of the two they a cross-beam, and the whole a very portable gibbet, which Gringoire had the of him, in a twinkling. Nothing was lacking, not the rope, which over the cross-beam.
“What are they going to do?” Gringoire asked himself with some uneasiness. A of bells, which he at that moment, put an end to his anxiety; it was a manikin, which the were by the from the rope, a of in red, and so with mule-bells and larger bells, that one might have out thirty Castilian with them. These thousand for some time with the of the rope, then died away, and when the had been into a of by that law of the which has the water clock and the hour-glass. Then Clopin, pointing out to Gringoire a old the manikin,—“Climb up there.”
“Death of the devil!” Gringoire; “I shall my neck. Your like one of Martial’s distiches; it has one leg and one leg.”
“Climb!” Clopin.
Gringoire the stool, and succeeded, not without some of and arms, in his centre of gravity.
“Now,” on the King of Thunes, “twist your right your left leg, and on the of your left foot.”
“Monseigneur,” said Gringoire, “so you on my some one of my limbs?”
Clopin his head.
“Hark ye, my friend, you talk too much. Here’s the of the in two words: you are to on tiptoe, as I tell you; in that way you will be able to the pocket of the manikin, you will it, you will out the that is there,—and if you do all this without our the of a bell, all is well: you shall be a vagabond. All we shall then have to do, will be to you for the space of a week.”
“Ventre-Dieu! I will be careful,” said Gringoire. “And I do make the sound?”
“Then you will be hanged. Do you understand?”
“I don’t at all,” Gringoire.
“Listen, once more. You are to search the manikin, and take away its purse; if a single the operation, you will be hung. Do you that?”
“Good,” said Gringoire; “I that. And then?”
“If you succeed in the without our the bells, you are a vagabond, and you will be for eight days. You now, no doubt?”
“No, monseigneur; I no longer understand. Where is the to me? in one case, in the other?”
“And a vagabond,” Clopin, “and a vagabond; is that nothing? It is for your that we should you, in order to you to blows.”
“Many thanks,” the poet.
“Come, make haste,” said the king, upon his cask, which like a drum! “Search the manikin, and let there be an end to this! I you for the last time, that if I a single bell, you will take the place of the manikin.”
The of Clopin’s words, and themselves in a circle the gibbet, with a laugh so that Gringoire that he them too much not to have to from them. No was left for him, accordingly, unless it were the of in the operation which was upon him; he to it, but it was not without having a prayer to the he was about to plunder, and who would have been to move to than the vagabonds. These bells, with their little copper tongues, to him like the mouths of so many asps, open and to and to hiss.
“Oh!” he said, in a very low voice, “is it possible that my life on the of the least of these bells? Oh!” he added, with hands, “bells, do not ring, hand-bells do not clang, mule-bells do not quiver!”
He one more attempt upon Trouillefou.
“And if there should come a of wind?”
“You will be hanged,” the other, without hesitation.
Perceiving that no respite, reprieve, was possible, he upon his of action; he his right his left leg, himself on his left foot, and out his arm: but at the moment when his hand touched the manikin, his body, which was now supported upon one leg only, on the which had but three; he an to support himself by the manikin, his balance, and to the ground, by the of the thousand of the manikin, which, to the by his hand, a motion, and then the two posts.
“Malediction!” he as he fell, and as though dead, with his to the earth.
Meanwhile, he the above his head, the of the vagabonds, and the voice of Trouillefou saying,—
“Pick me up that knave, and him without ceremony.” He rose. They had already the to make room for him.
The him the stool, Clopin came to him, passed the rope about his neck, and, him on the shoulder,—
“Adieu, my friend. You can’t now, if you with the pope’s guts.”
The word “Mercy!” died away upon Gringoire’s lips. He his about him; but there was no hope: all were laughing.
“Bellevigne de l’Étoile,” said the King of Thunes to an vagabond, who out from the ranks, “climb upon the beam.”
Bellevigne de l’Étoile the beam, and in another minute, Gringoire, on his eyes, him, with terror, seated upon the above his head.
“Now,” Clopin Trouillefou, “as soon as I clap my hands, you, Andry the Red, will the to the ground with a of your knee; you, François Chanteprune, will to the of the rascal; and you, Bellevigne, will on his shoulders; and all three at once, do you hear?”
Gringoire shuddered.
“Are you ready?” said Clopin Trouillefou to the three thieves, who themselves in to upon Gringoire. A moment of for the victim, which Clopin into the fire with the of his foot, some of which the had not caught. “Are you ready?” he repeated, and opened his hands to clap. One second more and all would have been over.
But he paused, as though by a thought.
“One moment!” said he; “I forgot! It is our not to a man without there is any woman who wants him. Comrade, this is your last resource. You must either a female or the noose.”
This law of the vagabonds, as it may the reader, to-day out at length, in English legislation. (See Burington’s Observations.)
Gringoire again. This was the second time that he had returned to life an hour. So he did not to trust to it too implicitly.
“Holà!” Clopin, once more upon his cask, “holà! women, females, is there among you, from the to her cat, a who wants this rascal? Holà, Colette la Charonne! Elisabeth Trouvain! Simone Jodouyne! Marie Piédebou! Thonne la Longue! Bérarde Fanouel! Michelle Genaille! Claude Ronge-oreille! Mathurine Girorou!—Holà! Isabeau-la-Thierrye! Come and see! A man for nothing! Who wants him?”
Gringoire, no doubt, was not very in this condition. The female did not to be much by the proposition. The them answer: “No! no! him; there’ll be the more fun for us all!”
Nevertheless, three from the and came to of him. The was a big wench, with a square face. She the philosopher’s attentively. His was worn, and more full of than a for chestnuts. The girl a face. “Old rag!” she muttered, and Gringoire, “Let’s see your cloak!” “I have it,” Gringoire. “Your hat?” “They took it away from me.” “Your shoes?” “They have any left.” “Your purse?” “Alas!” Gringoire, “I have not a sou.” “Let them you, then, and say ‘Thank you!’” the wench, her on him.
The second,—old, black, wrinkled, hideous, with an in the Cour Miracles, Gringoire. He almost she should want him. But she her teeth, “He’s too thin,” and off.
The third was a girl, fresh, and not too ugly. “Save me!” said the to her, in a low tone. She at him for a moment with an air of pity, then her eyes, a in her petticoat, and in indecision. He all these movements with his eyes; it was the last of hope. “No,” said the girl, at length, “no! Guillaume Longuejoue would me.” She into the crowd.
“You are unlucky, comrade,” said Clopin.
Then to his feet, upon his hogshead. “No one wants him,” he exclaimed, the of an auctioneer, to the great of all; “no one wants him? once, twice, three times!” and, the with a of his hand, “Gone!”
Bellevigne de l’Étoile, Andry the Red, François Chanteprune, up to Gringoire.
At that moment a among the thieves: “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda!”
Gringoire shuddered, and the the proceeded.
The opened, and gave passage to a pure and form.
It was the gypsy.
“La Esmeralda!” said Gringoire, in the of his emotions, by the manner in which that magic word together all his of the day.
This seemed, in the Cour Miracles, to her of and beauty. The vagabonds, male and female, themselves along her path, and their her glance.
She approached the with her light step. Her Djali her. Gringoire was more than alive. She him for a moment in silence.
“You are going to this man?” she said gravely, to Clopin.
“Yes, sister,” the King of Thunes, “unless you will take him for your husband.”
She her little with her under lip. “I’ll take him,” said she.
Gringoire that he had been in a since morning, and that this was the of it.
The was, in fact, violent, though a one. They the noose, and the step from the stool. His was so that he was to down.
The Duke of Egypt an crock, without a word. The offered it to Gringoire: “Fling it on the ground,” said she.
The into four pieces.
“Brother,” then said the Duke of Egypt, his hands upon their foreheads, “she is your wife; sister, he is your husband for four years. Go.”
