almost lost in a cauldron, which
he was scraping with a tile, and from which he was evoking a sound that
would have made Stradivarius swoon.

Near the fire was a hogshead, and on the hogshead a beggar. This was the
king on his throne.

The three who had Gringoire in their clutches led him in front of this
hogshead, and the entire bacchanal rout fell silent for a moment, with
the exception of the cauldron inhabited by the child.

Gringoire dared neither breathe nor raise his eyes.

"_Hombre, quita tu sombrero_!" said one of the three knaves, in whose
grasp he was, and, before he had comprehended the meaning, the other had
snatched his hat--a wretched headgear, it is true, but still good on a
sunny day or when there was but little rain. Gringoire sighed.

Meanwhile the king addressed him, from the summit of his cask,--

"Who is this rogue?"

Gringoire shuddered. That voice, although accentuated by menace,
recalled to him another voice, which, that very morning, had dealt the
deathblow to his mystery, by drawling, nasally, in the midst of the
audience, "Charity, please!" He raised his head. It was indeed Clopin
Trouillefou.

Clopin Trouillefou, arrayed in his royal insignia, wore neither one rag
more nor one rag less. The sore upon his arm had already disappeared.
He held in his hand one of those whips made of thongs of white leather,
which police sergeants then used to repress the crowd, and which were
called _boullayes_. On his head he wore a sort of headgear, bound round
and closed at the top. But it was difficult to make out whether it was
a child's cap or a king's crown, the two things bore so strong a
resemblance to each other.

Meanwhile Gringoire, without knowing why, had regained some hope, on
recognizing in the King of the Cour des Miracles his accursed mendicant
of the Grand Hall.

"Master," stammered he; "monseigneur--sire--how ought I to address
you?" he said at length, having reached the culminating point of his
crescendo, and knowing neither how to mount higher, nor to descend
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?" thought Gringoire, "that displeases me." He
resumed, stuttering, "I am he, who this morning--"

"By the devil's claws!" interrupted Clopin, "your name, knave, and
nothing more. Listen. You are in the presence of three powerful
sovereigns: myself, Clopin Trouillefou,