nually to public
affairs, without wages or hope of salary! Do you know that I am called
Florian Barbedienne, actual lieutenant to monsieur the provost, and,
moreover, commissioner, inquisitor, controller, and examiner, with equal
power in provostship, bailiwick, preservation, and inferior court of
judicature?--"

There is no reason why a deaf man talking to a deaf man should stop.
God knows where and when Master Florian would have landed, when thus
launched at full speed in lofty eloquence, if the low door at the
extreme end of the room had not suddenly opened, and given entrance
to the provost in person. At his entrance Master Florian did not stop
short, but, making a half-turn on his heels, and aiming at the provost
the harangue with which he had been withering Quasimodo a moment
before,--

"Monseigneur," said he, "I demand such penalty as you shall deem fitting
against the prisoner here present, for grave and aggravated offence
against the court."

And he seated himself, utterly breathless, wiping away the great
drops of sweat which fell from his brow and drenched, like tears, the
parchments spread out before him. Messire Robert d'Estouteville frowned
and made a gesture so imperious and significant to Quasimodo, that the
deaf man in some measure understood it.

The provost addressed him with severity, "What have you done that you
have been brought hither, knave?"

The poor fellow, supposing that the provost was asking his name, broke
the silence which he habitually preserved, and replied, in a harsh and
guttural voice, "Quasimodo."

The reply matched the question so little that the wild laugh began to
circulate once more, and Messire Robert exclaimed, red with wrath,--

"Are you mocking me also, you arrant knave?"

"Bellringer of Notre-Dame," replied Quasimodo, supposing that what was
required of him was to explain to the judge who he was.

"Bellringer!" interpolated the provost, who had waked up early enough to
be in a sufficiently bad temper, as we have said, not to require to have
his fury inflamed by such strange responses. "Bellringer! I'll play you
a chime of rods on your back through the squares of Paris! Do you hear,
knave?"

"If it is my age that you wish to know," said Quasimodo, "I think that I
shall be twenty at Saint Martin's day."

This was too much; the provost could no longer restrain himself.

"Ah! you are scoffing at the provostship, wretch! Messieurs the
sergeants of the mace, you w