lacking. Gringoire perceived that his music had been carried off by the procession of the Pope of the Fools. "Skip it," said he, stoically.
He approached a group of bourgeois, who seemed to him to be discussing his piece. This is the fragment of conversation which he caught,—
"You know, Master Cheneteau, the Hôtel de Navarre, which belonged to Monsieur de Nemours?"
"Yes, opposite the Chapelle de Braque."
"Well, the treasury has just let it to Guillaume Alixandre, historian, for six livres, eight sols, parisian, a year."
"How rents are going up!"
"Come," said Gringoire to himself, with a sigh, "the others are listening."
"Comrades," suddenly shouted one of the young scamps from the window, "La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda in the Place!"
This word produced a magical effect. Every one who was left in the hall flew to the windows, climbing the walls in order to see, and repeating, "La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda?"
At the same time, a great sound of applause was heard from without.
"What's the meaning of this, of the Esmeralda?" said Gringoire, wringing his hands in despair. "Ah, good heavens! it seems to be the turn of the windows now."
He returned towards the marble table, and saw that the representation had been interrupted. It was precisely at the instant when Jupiter should have appeared with his thunder. But Jupiter was standing motionless at the foot of the stage.
"Michel Giborne!" cried the irritated poet, "what are you doing there? Is that your part? Come up!"
"Alas!" said Jupiter, "a scholar has just seized the ladder."
Gringoire looked. It was but too true. All communication between his plot and its solution was intercepted.
"The rascal," he murmured. "And why did he take that ladder?"
