'Ah，cruel one！'responded the poet.'Never mind，you cannot provoke me.See，perhaps you will like me when you know me better；besides，you have told me your story with so much confidence that it is only fair that I should tell you something of mine.You must know，then，that my name is Pierre Gringoire，and that my father farmed the office of notary in Gonesse.He was hanged by the Burgundians，and my mother was murdered by the Picards at the time of the siege of Paris，twenty years ago.So，at six years of age I was an orphan，with no sole to my foot but the pavement of Paris.How I got through the interval from six to sixteen I should be at a loss to tell.A fruit-seller would throw me a plum here，a baker a crust of bread there.At night I would get picked up by the watch，who put me in prison，where at least I found a truss of straw to lie upon.All this did not prevent me from growing tall and thin，as you perceive.In winter I warmed myself in the sun in the porch of the Htel de Sens，and I thought it very absurd that the bonfires for the Feast of Saint-John should be reserved for the dog-days.At sixteen I wished to adopt a trade.I tried everything in turn.I became a soldier，but I was lacking in courage；friar，but I was not sufficiently pious—besides，I am a poor hand at drinking.In desperation I apprenticed myself to a Guild of Carpenters，but I was not strong enough.I had more inclination towards being a school-master：to be sure，I could not read，but that need not have prevented me.At last I was obliged to acknowledge that something was lacking in me for every profession；so，finding that I was good for nothing，I，of my own free will，turned poet and composer of rhythms.That is a calling a man can adopt when he is a vagabond，and is always better than robbing，as some young friends of mine，who are themselves footpads，urged me to do.One fine day I was fortunate enough to encounter Dom Claude Frollo，the reverend Archdeacon of Notre-Dame.He interested himself in me，and I owe it to him that I am to-day a finished man of letters，being well versed in Latin，from Cicero's'Offices'to the'Mortuology'of the Celestine Fathers，nor ignorant of scholastics，of poetics，of music，nor even of hermetics nor alchemy—that subtlety of subtleties.Then，I am the author of the Mystery represented with great triumph and concourse of the people，filling the great Hall of the Palais de Justice.Moreover，I have written a book running to six hundred pages on the prodigious comet of 1465，over which a man lost his reason.Other successes，too，I have had.Being somewhat of an artillery carpenter，I helped in the construction of that great bombard of Jean Maugue，which，as you know，burst on the Charenton bridge the first time it was tried and killed four-and-twenty of the spectators.So，you see，I am not such a bad match.I know many very pleasing tricks which I would teach your goat；for instance，to imitate the Bishop of Paris，that accursed Pharisee whose mill-wheels splash the passengers the whole length of the Pont-aux-Meuniers.And then my Mystery play will bring me in a great deal of money，if only they pay me.In short，I am wholly at your service—myself，my wit，my science，and my learning；ready，damoselle，to live with you as it shall please you—in chastity or pleasure—as man and wife，if so you think good—as brother and sister，if it please you better.'
Gringoire stopped，waiting for the effect of his long speech on the girl.Her eyes were fixed on the ground.
'Pus，'she murmured.Then，turning to the poet，'Pus，what does that mean？'
Gringoire，though not exactly seeing the connection between his harangue and this question，was nothing loath to exhibit his erudition.Bridling with conscious pride，he answered：'It is a Latin word meaning'the sun.''
'The sun！'she exclaimed.
'And the name of a certain handsome archer，who was a god，'added Gringoire.
'A god！'repeated the gipsy with something pensive and passionate in her tone.
At that moment one of her bracelets became unfastened and slipped to the ground.Gringoire bent quickly to pick it up；when he rose the girl and her goat had disappeared.He only heard the sound of a bolt being shot which came from a little door leading，doubtless，into an inner room.
'Has she，at least，left me a bed？'inquired our philosopher.
He made the tour of the chamber.He found no piece of furniture suitable for slumber but a long wooden chest，and its lid was profusely carved，so that when Gringoire lay down upon it he felt very much as Micromegas must have done when he stretched himself at full length to slumber on the Alps.
'Well，'he said，accommodating himself as best he might to the inequalities of his couch，'one must make the best of it.But this is indeed a strange wedding-night.'Tis a pity，too；there was something guileless and antediluvian about that marriage by broken pitcher that took my fancy.'
1 When the bright-hued birds are silent，And the earth…
2 My father's a bird，
My mother's another.
I pass over the water Without boat or wherry.
My mother's a bird，
And so is my father.
