been offered a bone and given a stone.

CHAPTER IV. _ANArKH_.

It chanced that upon a fine morning in this same month of March, I think
it was on Saturday the 29th, Saint Eustache's day, our young friend the
student, Jehan Frollo du Moulin, perceived, as he was dressing himself,
that his breeches, which contained his purse, gave out no metallic ring.
"Poor purse," he said, drawing it from his fob, "what! not the smallest
parisis! how cruelly the dice, beer-pots, and Venus have depleted thee!
How empty, wrinkled, limp, thou art! Thou resemblest the throat of a
fury! I ask you, Messer Cicero, and Messer Seneca, copies of whom, all
dog's-eared, I behold scattered on the floor, what profits it me to
know, better than any governor of the mint, or any Jew on the Pont aux
Changeurs, that a golden crown stamped with a crown is worth thirty-five
unzains of twenty-five sous, and eight deniers parisis apiece, and
that a crown stamped with a crescent is worth thirty-six unzains of
twenty-six sous, six deniers tournois apiece, if I have not a single
wretched black liard to risk on the double-six! Oh! Consul Cicero! this
is no calamity from which one extricates one's self with periphrases,
_quemadmodum_, and _verum enim vero_!"

He dressed himself sadly. An idea had occurred to him as he laced his
boots, but he rejected it at first; nevertheless, it returned, and he
put on his waistcoat wrong side out, an evident sign of violent internal
combat. At last he dashed his cap roughly on the floor, and exclaimed:
"So much the worse! Let come of it what may. I am going to my brother! I
shall catch a sermon, but I shall catch a crown."

Then he hastily donned his long jacket with furred half-sleeves, picked
up his cap, and went out like a man driven to desperation.

He descended the Rue de la Harpe toward the City. As he passed the
Rue de la Huchette, the odor of those admirable spits, which were
incessantly turning, tickled his olfactory apparatus, and he bestowed
a loving glance toward the Cyclopean roast, which one day drew from the
Franciscan friar, Calatagirone, this pathetic exclamation: _Veramente,
queste rotisserie sono cosa stupenda_!* But Jehan had not the
wherewithal to buy a breakfast, and he plunged, with a profound sigh,
under the gateway of the Petit-Chatelet, that enormous double trefoil of
massive towers which guarded the entrance to the City.

* Truly, these roastings are a stupendous thing!

He did