Собор Парижской богоматери / Notre-Dame de Paris

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.