King of Thunes, successor to the
Grand Coesre, supreme suzerain of the Realm of Argot; Mathias Hunyadi
Spicali, Duke of Egypt and of Bohemia, the old yellow fellow whom
you see yonder, with a dish clout round his head; Guillaume Rousseau,
Emperor of Galilee, that fat fellow who is not listening to us but
caressing a wench. We are your judges. You have entered the Kingdom of
Argot, without being an _argotier_; you have violated the privileges of
our city. You must be punished unless you are a _capon_, a _franc-mitou_
or a _rifode_; that is to say, in the slang of honest folks,--a thief, a
beggar, or a vagabond. Are you anything of that sort? Justify yourself;
announce your titles."

"Alas!" said Gringoire, "I have not that honor. I am the author--"

"That is sufficient," resumed Trouillefou, without permitting him
to finish. "You are going to be hanged. 'Tis a very simple matter,
gentlemen and honest bourgeois! as you treat our people in your abode,
so we treat you in ours! The law which you apply to vagabonds, vagabonds
apply to you. 'Tis your fault if it is harsh. One really must behold
the grimace of an honest man above the hempen collar now and then; that
renders the thing honorable. Come, friend, divide your rags gayly among
these damsels. I am going to have you hanged to amuse the vagabonds, and
you are to give them your purse to drink your health. If you have any
mummery to go through with, there's a very good God the Father in that
mortar yonder, in stone, which we stole from Saint-Pierre aux Boeufs.
You have four minutes in which to fling your soul at his head."

The harangue was formidable.

"Well said, upon my soul! Clopin Trouillefou preaches like the Holy
Father the Pope!" exclaimed the Emperor of Galilee, smashing his pot in
order to prop up his table.

"Messeigneurs, emperors, and kings," said Gringoire coolly (for I know
not how, firmness had returned to him, and he spoke with resolution),
"don't think of such a thing; my name is Pierre Gringoire. I am the
poet whose morality was presented this morning in the grand hall of the
Courts."

"Ah! so it was you, master!" said Clopin. "I was there, _xete Dieu_!
Well! comrade, is that any reason, because you bored us to death this
morning, that you should not be hung this evening?"

"I shall find difficulty in getting out of it," said Gringoire to
himself. Nevertheless, he made one more effort: "I don't see why poets
are not classed with vagabonds," said