Собор Парижской богоматери / Notre-Dame de Paris. Виктор Мари Гюго

of Maximilian of Austria, with the reverend Father in God, Jehan, Abbot of Saint-Bertin, at the head, and Jacques de Goy, Sieur Dauby, Grand Bailiff of Ghent. A deep silence settled over the assembly, accompanied by stifled laughter at the preposterous names. There were bailiffs, aldermen, burgomasters;—all stiff, formal, dressed out in velvet and damask.

      There was one exception, however. It was a subtle, intelligent man, before whom the cardinal made three steps and a profound bow. His name was only “Guillaume Rym, counsellor and pensioner of the City of Ghent.”

      Few persons were then aware who Guillaume Rym was. A rare genius who in a time of revolution would have made a brilliant appearance on the surface of events, but who in the fifteenth century was reduced to cavernous intrigues, and to “living in mines,” as the Duc de Saint-Simon expresses it.

      Chapter IV

      Master Jacques Coppenole

      A man of lofty stature, with a large face and broad shoulders, entered along with Guillaume Rym. The usher stopped him.

      “Hold, my friend, you cannot pass!”

      The man shouldered him aside.

      “Don’t you see that I am one of them?”

      “Your name?” demanded the usher.

      “Jacques Coppenole.”

      “Your titles?”

      “Hosier at the sign of the ‘Three Little Chains,’ of Ghent.”

      The usher recoiled. One might bring one’s self to announce aldermen and burgomasters, but a hosier was too much.

      Guillaume Rym, with his polished smile, approached the usher.

      “Announce Master Jacques Coppenole, clerk of the aldermen of the city of Ghent,” he whispered, very low.

      “Usher,” interposed the cardinal, aloud, “announce Master Jacques Coppenole, clerk of the aldermen of the illustrious city of Ghent.”

      Coppenole proudly saluted his eminence, who returned the salute. Then each sought his place.

      The reader has, probably, not forgotten the beggar who had been clinging to the fringes of the cardinal’s gallery ever since the beginning of the prologue. The arrival of the guests had by no means caused him to relax his hold, even though he was remarkably close to them now. The Flemish ambassador, bestow a friendly tap on his ragged shoulder. The beggar turned round; there was surprise, recognition, a lighting up of the two countenances, and so forth; then the two began to converse in a low tone, holding each other’s hands.

      Now, one thing was completely forgotten by the crowd. Pierre Gringoire and his prologue.

      This was precisely what he feared.

      From the moment of the cardinal’s entrance, Gringoire was worried for the safety of his prologue. At first he had asked the actors to continue, and to raise their voices; then, seeing that no one was listening, he had stopped them; all in vain.

      Nevertheless, our poet decided what to do next.

      “Monsieur,” he said, turning towards one of his neighbors, a fine, big man, with a patient face, “suppose we begin again.”

      “What?” said his neighbor.

      “The Mystery,” said Gringoire.

      “As you like,” returned his neighbor.

      This sufficed for Gringoire, and he began to shout: “Begin the mystery again! Begin again!”

      The bailiff approached the cardinal, and awkwardly explained to him that noonday had arrived before his eminence, and that the comedians had been forced to begin without waiting for his eminence.

      The cardinal burst into a laugh.

      “Monseigneur,” said Guillaume Rym, “let us be content with having escaped half of the comedy. There is at least that much gained.”

      “Can these rascals continue their farce?” asked the bailiff.

      “Continue, continue,” said the cardinal, “it’s all the same to me.”

      The personages on the stage took up their parts, and Gringoire hoped that the rest of his work, at least, would be listened to. This hope soon faded; silence had indeed, been restored; but Gringoire did not realise that at the moment, the gallery was far from full, and that the important personages were still being announced.

      “Master Jacques Charmolue, procurator to the king in the Ecclesiastical Courts!”

      “Messire Galiot de Genoilhac, chevalier, seigneur de Brussac, master of the king’s artillery!”

      “Master Denis le Mercier, guardian of the house of the blind at Paris!” etc., etc., etc.

      This was becoming unbearable.

      And still, nothing could turn the audience from the cardinal; all eyes remained fixed there. No one listened, no one looked at the poor, deserted morality. Gringoire saw only profiles.

      The usher’s brutal monologue came to an end; every one had arrived, and Gringoire breathed freely once more; the actors continued bravely. But Master Coppenole, all of a sudden rose and proclaimed:

      “Messieurs and squires of Paris, I don’t know, what we are doing here. I don’t know whether that is what you call a “mystery,” but it is not amusing; they quarrel with their tongues and nothing more. That is not what I was told; I was promised a feast of fools, with the election of a pope. The way we manage it in Ghent is; we collect a crowd like this one here, then each person in turn puts his head through a hole, and makes a grimace; the one who makes the ugliest, is elected pope by general acclamation. What say you, Messieurs les bourgeois?”

      Gringoire would have liked to retort; stupefaction, rage, indignation, deprived him of words. Moreover, the suggestion of the popular hosier was received with such enthusiasm, that all resistance was useless. There was nothing to be done but to allow one’s self to drift with the torrent.

      Chapter V

      Quasimodo

      In the twinkling of an eye, all was ready to execute Coppenole’s idea. Everyone set to work. The little chapel situated opposite the marble table was selected for the scene of the grinning match. A pane broken in the pretty rose window above the door, left free a circle of stone. That was agreed upon as the hole that the competitors should thrust their heads in. In order to reach it, it was only necessary to mount upon a couple of hogsheads. It was settled so that each candidate should cover his face and remain concealed in the chapel until the moment of his appearance. In less than an instant, the chapel was crowded with competitors.

      Coppenole directed all. During the uproar, the cardinal had retired to his suite, under the pretext of business.

      The grimaces began. A second and third grimace followed, then another and another; and the laughter went on increasing.

      “Just look at that face!”

      “It’s not good for anything.”

      “Another!”

      “Good! Good!”

      As for Gringoire, it was far worse than it had been a little while before. He no longer beheld anything but backs.

      There was a thunder of applause. The Pope of the Fools had been elected.

      “Noël! Noël! Noël![2]” shouted the people on all sides. A marvellous grimace was beaming at that moment through the aperture in the rose window. It had a tetrahedral nose, a horseshoe mouth; one little left eye obstructed with a red, bushy, bristling eyebrow, while the right eye disappearing entirely beneath an enormous wart. Teeth were in disarray, broken here and there. The whole expression was a mixture of malice, amazement, and sadness.

      People rushed towards the chapel. They made the lucky Pope of the Fools come forth in triumph. But it was then that surprise and admiration attained their highest pitch; the grimace was his face.

      Or

2

Французский эквивалент “Hurrah”.