Round a great fire which burned on a large round flagstone，and glowed on the red-hot legs of a trivet，unoccupied for the moment，some worm-eaten tables were ranged haphazard，without the smallest regard to symmetry or order.On these tables stood a few overflowing tankards of wine or beer，and grouped round them many bacchanalian faces reddened both by the fire and wine.Here was a man，round of belly and jovial of face，noisily embracing a thick-set，brawny trollop of the streets.Here a sham soldier，whistling cheerfully while he unwound the bandages of his false wound，and unstiffened his sound and vigorous knee，strapped up since the morning in yards of ligature.Anon it was a malingreux—a malingerer—preparing with celandine and oxblood his'jambe de Dieu'or sore leg for the morrow.Two tables farther on a coquillart with his complete pilgrim's suit，cockle-shell on hat，was spelling out and practising the Plaint of Sainte-Reine in its proper sing-song tone and nasal whine.Elsewhere a young hubin was taking a lesson in epilepsy from an old sabouleux，who was teaching him how to foam at the mouth by chewing a piece of soap.Close by，a dropsical man was removing his swelling，while four or five hags at the same table were quarrelling over a child they had stolen that evening.All of which circumstances two centuries later'appeared so diverting to the Court，'says Sauval，'that they furnished pastime to the King，and the opening scene of the royal ballet，entitled'Night，'which was divided into four parts and was danced on the stage of the Petit-Bourbon.''And never，'adds an eye-witness in 1653，'were the sudden metamorphoses of the Cour des Miracles more happily represented.Benserade prepared us for it with some very pleasing verses.'
Loud guffaws of laughter resounded everywhere，and obscene songs.Each one said his say，passed his criticisms，and swore freely without listening to his neighbours'.Wine cups clinked and quarrels arose as the cups met，the smash of broken crockery leading further to the tearing of rags.
A great dog sat on his tail and stared into the fire.A few children mingled in this orgy.The stolen child wept and wailed；another，a bouncing boy of four，was seated with dangling legs on too high a bench，the table reaching just to his chin，and said not a word；a third was engaged in spreading over the table with his fingers the tallow from a guttering candle.ly，a very little one was squatting in the mud，and almost lost in a great iron pot，which he scraped out with a tile，drawing sounds from it which would have made Stradivarius swoon.
There was a barrel near the fire，and seated on the barrel a beggar.It was the King upon his throne.
The three who had hold of Gringoire led him up to the barrel，and the pandemonium was silent for a moment，save for the caldron tenanted by the child.
Gringoire dared not breathe or lift his eyes.
'Hombre，quita tu sombrero，'5said one of the three rogues in possession of him；and before he could understand what this meant，another had snatched off his hat—a poor thing，it is true，but available still on a day of sunshine or of rain.
Gringoire heaved a sigh.
Meanwhile the King，from his elevated seat，demanded：'What sort of a rascal is this？'
Gringoire started.This voice，though speaking in menacing tones，reminded him of the one which that very morning had struck the first blow at his Mystery，as it whined in the middle of the audience，'Charity，I pray！'He looked up—it was indeed Clopin Trouillefou.
Clopin Trouillefou，invested with the regal insignia，had not one rag the more or the less upon him.The sore on his arm had disappeared certainly，while in his hand he held one of those leather-thonged whips called boullayes，and used in those days by the sergeants of the guard to keep back the crowd.On his head he had a sort of bonnet twisted into a circle and closed at the top；but whether it was a child's cap or a king's crown it would be hard to say，so much did the two resemble one another.
However，Gringoire，without any apparent reason，felt his hopes revive a little on recognising in the King of the Court of Miracles his accursed beggar of the great Hall.
'Mre，'he stammered，'Monseigneur—Sire—How must I call you？'he said at last，having reached the highest point of his scale，and not knowing how to mount higher nor how to descend.
'Monseigneur，Your Majesty，or Comrade—call me what thou wilt，only make haste.What hast thou to say in thy defence？'
'In my defence？'thought Gringoire；'I don't quite like the sound of that.I am the one，'he stammered，'who this morning—'
'By the claws of the devil，'broke in Clopin，'thy name，rascal，and nothing more！Hark ye！thou standest before three puissant sovereigns—myself，Clopin Trouillefou，King of Tunis，successor to the Grand C re，Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of Argot；Mathis Hunyadi Spicali，Duke of Egypt and Bohemia，the yellow-vised old fellow over there with a clout round his head；Guillaume Rousseau，Emperor of Galilee，that fat fellow who's hugging a wench instead of attending to us.We are thy judges.Thou hast entered into the Kingdom of Argot without being an Argotier，and so violated the privileges of our city.Thou must pay the penalty unless thou art either a capon，a franc mitou，or a rifodè—that is to say，in the argot of honest men，either a thief，a beggar，or a vagabond.Art thou any one of these？Come，justify thyself—describe thy qualifications.'
'Alas！'said Gringoire，'I have not that honour.I am the author—'
