'You oblige me to do the talking alone.That is what we call in tragedy a monologue.Pasque-Dieu！—I would have you know that I am just come from King Louis XI，and that I have caught that oath from him—Pasque-Dieu！they are keeping up a glorious howling in the city！'Tis a bad，wicked old king.He is all wrapped in furs.He still owes me the money for my epithalamium，and he all but hanged me to-night，which would have greatly hindered my career.He is niggardly towards men of merit.He would do well to read the four books of Salvian of Cologne—Adversus Avaritiam.In good sooth，he is a king very narrow in his dealings with men of letters，and who commits most barbarous cruelties—a sponge laid upon the people，and sucking up their money.His thrift is as the spleen that grows big upon the wasting of the other members.And so the complaints against the hardness of the times turn to murmurs against the prince.Under this mild and pious lord of ours the gibbets are weighed down with corpses，the blocks rot with gore，the prisons burst like overfilled sacks.This king robs with one hand，and hangs with the other.He is the purveyor for Mme.Gabelle1 and M.Gibbet.The high are stripped of their dignities，and the low are increasingly loaded with fresh burdens.'Tis an exorbitant prince.I like not this monarch.What say you，my master？'
The man in black let the garrulous poet babble on.He was still struggling against the strong full current that separates the prow of the city from the poop of th e Notre-Dame，now called th e Saint Louis.
'By-the-bye，master，'Gringoire began again suddenly；'just as we reached the Parvis through the raging crowd of truands，did your reverence remark the poor little devil whose brains that deaf ringer of yours was in the act of dashing out against the parapet of the gallery of kings？I am near-sighted，and could not recognise him.Who can it have been，think you？'
The unknown answered not a word，but he ceased rowing abruptly；his arms fell slack as if broken，his head dropped upon his breast，and Esmeralda heard him sigh convulsively.
She started violently；she had heard sights like that before.
The boat，left to itself，drifted for a few moments with the stream；but the man in black roused himself at last，grasped the oars again，and set the boat once more up-stream.He doubled the point of th e Notre-Dame，and made for the landing-place at the hay wharf.
'Ah！'said Gringoire，'we are passing the Logis Barbeau.Look，master，at that group of black roofs that form such quaint angles over there，just underneath that mass of low-hanging gray cloud，through which the moon looks all crushed and spread abroad like the yolk of an egg when the shell is broken.'Tis a very fine mansion.It has a chapel crowned by a small dome which is wholly lined with admirably carved enrichments.Just above it，you can see the bell-tower，very delicately perforated.It also possesses a pleasant garden comprising a pond，an aviary，an echo，a mall，a labyrinth，and wild beast house，and many bosky paths very agreeable to Venus.Besides，there's a very naughty tree which they call the‘pander，'because it cloaked the pleasures of a notorious princess and a certain Constable of France—a man of wit and gallantry.Alas！we poor philosophers are to a Constable of France as the cabbage or radish-bed to the garden of the Louvre.Well，what matters it after all？Life is a mixture of good and evil for the great even as for us.Sorrow is ever by the side of joy，the spondee beside the dactyl.Master，I must tell you that story of the Logis Barbeau some day；it had a tragical ending.It happened in 1319，in the reign of Philippe V，the longest reign of all the kings of France.The moral of the story is that the temptations of the flesh are pernicious and malign.Let our eyes not linger too long upon our neighbour's wife，however much our senses may be excited by her beauty.Fornication is a very libertine thought.Adultery，a prying into the pleasant delights of another.Ohé！the noise grows louder over there！'
In truth，the uproar was increasing round Notre-Dame.They listened.They were plainly shouts of victory.Suddenly a hundred torches，their light flashing upon the helmets of men-at-arms，spread themselves rapidly over the church at every height，over the towers，the galleries，under the buttresses，appearing to be searching for something；and soon the distant shouts reached the ears of the fugitives：'The gipsy！the witch！Death to the Egyptian！'
The unhappy girl dropped her face in her hands，and the unknown began rowing furiously towards the bank.Meanwhile our philosopher cogitated rapidly.He clasped the goat in his arms，and edged gently away from the gipsy，who pressed closer and closer to his side as her only remaining protection.
Certainly Gringoire was on the horns of a cruel dilemma.He reflected that the goat too，by the existing legislation，was bound to be hanged if retaken，which would be a sad pity，poor little Djali！that two condemned females thus clinging on to him were more than he could manage，and that finally his companion asked for nothing better than to take charge of the gipsy girl.Nevertheless，a violent struggle went on in his mind，during which，like the Jupiter of the Iliad，he weighed the gipsy and the goat by turns in the balance，looking first at one and then at the other，his eyes moist with tears，while he muttered between his teeth，'And yet I cannot save both of you！'
