at the
other end of the dram-shop.

"That poor Esmeralda!" said a Bohemian. "She is our sister. She must be
taken away from there."

"Is she still at Notre-Dame?" went on a merchant with the appearance of
a Jew.

"Yes, pardieu!"

"Well! comrades!" exclaimed the merchant, "to Notre-Dame! So much the
better, since there are in the chapel of Saints Fereol and Ferrution
two statues, the one of John the Baptist, the other of Saint-Antoine, of
solid gold, weighing together seven marks of gold and fifteen estellins;
and the pedestals are of silver-gilt, of seventeen marks, five ounces. I
know that; I am a goldsmith."

Here they served Jehan with his supper. As he threw himself back on the
bosom of the wench beside him, he exclaimed,--

"By Saint Voult-de-Lucques, whom people call Saint Goguelu, I am
perfectly happy. I have before me a fool who gazes at me with the smooth
face of an archduke. Here is one on my left whose teeth are so long that
they hide his chin. And then, I am like the Marshal de Gie at the siege
of Pontoise, I have my right resting on a hillock. _Ventre-Mahom_!
Comrade! you have the air of a merchant of tennis-balls; and you come
and sit yourself beside me! I am a nobleman, my friend! Trade is
incompatible with nobility. Get out of that! Hola he! You others, don't
fight! What, Baptiste Croque-Oison, you who have such a fine nose are
going to risk it against the big fists of that lout! Fool! _Non cuiquam
datum est habere nasum_--not every one is favored with a nose. You are
really divine, Jacqueline Ronge-Oreille! 'tis a pity that you have no
hair! Hola! my name is Jehan Frollo, and my brother is an archdeacon.
May the devil fly off with him! All that I tell you is the truth. In
turning vagabond, I have gladly renounced the half of a house situated
in paradise, which my brother had promised me. _Dimidiam domum in
paradiso_. I quote the text. I have a fief in the Rue Tirechappe, and
all the women are in love with me, as true as Saint Eloy was an
excellent goldsmith, and that the five trades of the good city of
Paris are the tanners, the tawers, the makers of cross-belts, the
purse-makers, and the sweaters, and that Saint Laurent was burnt
with eggshells. I swear to you, comrades.

"_Que je ne beuvrai de piment,
Devant un an, si je cy ment_.*

* That I will drink no spiced and honeyed wine for a year,
if I am lying now.

"'Tis moonlight, my charmer; see yonder through