by Hugo, Victor
It is not very much—let us return to the real Great Hall of the real old Palais.
One end of this gigantic parallelogram contained the famous marble table, so long, broad, and thick, according to the old registers, in a style to whet Gargantua’s appetite, that never had there been seen ‘such a slab of marble anywhere in the world’. The other end contained the chapel where Louis XI had had himself sculptured kneeling before the Virgin, and to which he had transferred, heedless of the two niches left empty in the row of royal statues, those of Charlemagne and St Louis, two saints who, he supposed, must enjoy much favour in heaven as kings of France. This chapel, still new, its construction dating from barely six years before, was all conceived with that delightful taste for delicate architecture, wonderful sculpture, precise and deeply incised tracery which in France marks the end of the Gothic age and survives until about the middle of the sixteenth century in the magical fantasies of the Renaissance. The little open-work rose-window pierced over the doorway was in particular a masterpiece of lightness and grace; it looked like a star woven from lace.
In the middle of the hall, opposite the great door, a tribune of gold brocade had been set up against the wall, with its own entrance contrived through a window in the passage leading to the Gilded Chamber; this was for the Flemish envoys and other important persons invited to the performance of the mystery play.
According to custom the mystery was to be performed actually on the marble table. It had been prepared to that end early that morning; its rich slab of marble, scored by the heels of the law clerks, bore a frame of scaffolding of a considerable height, the upper surface of which, visible from every part of the hall, was to serve as the stage, while the inside, screened by tapestries, was to be used as a dressing room for the actors. A ladder, artlessly placed outside, afforded communication between stage and dressing room, and its steep rungs had to serve for exits as well as entrances. No character so unexpected, no twist of plot, no dramatic suspense but had to climb this ladder. Innocent and venerable infancy of art and stage machinery!
Four sergeants of the bailiff of the Palais, whose duty was to stand guard over all popular entertainments, whether holidays or executions, stood at the four corners of the marble table.
The play was not due to commence until the last stroke of twelve came from the great clock in the Palais. That was certainly late for a theatrical performance, but the time had to be set to suit the ambassadors.
Now all this multitude had been waiting since morning. A good number of these honest spectators had been shivering since daybreak in front of the great steps of the Palais; some even claimed to have spent the night lying in the great doorway to be sure of entering first. The crowd grew denser all the time, and like water overflowing its level, began rising up the walls, surging round the pillars, spilling over the entablatures, cornices, window ledges, over all the architectural projections, all the protrusions of the sculptures. So discomfort, impatience, boredom, the liberated feeling of a day devoted to licence and folly, the quarrels continually breaking out over too sharp a nudge or a kick from a hobnailed boot, the tedium of a long wait, all this well before the hour appointed for the ambassadors’ arrival, lent a sour and bitter note to the clamour of this mass of people cribbed, cabined, confined, trampled, suffocated. All that could be heard were curses on the Flemings, the Provost of Merchants, Cardinal de Bourbon, the bailiff of the Palais, Madame Marguerite of Austria, the sergeants with their wands, the cold, the heat, the bad weather, the Bishop of Paris, the Pope of Fools, the pillars, the statues, this closed door, that open window, all to the great amusement of the bands of students and lackeys scattered through the mass, who stirred into all this discontent their own teasing and mischief, adding pinpricks to exacerbate the general ill humour.
Among others there was a group of these merry devils who, after smashing the glass, had boldly ensconced themselves on the entablature of a window, and thence stared and jeered outside and inside in turn at the crowd in the hall and the crowd in the Place outside. From their gestures of mimicry, their roars of laughter, the banter and jeering cries they exchanged with one another from one end of the hall to the other, it was obvious that these young clerks did not share the boredom and weariness of those present, and knew very well how to turn the sight before their eyes into an entertainment for their private pleasure which gave them patience to wait for the other.
‘Upon my soul, it’s you, Joannes Frollo de Molendino,’ one of them cried out to a little fair-haired devil, with a comely, mischievous face, clinging to the carved acanthus leaves of a capital. ‘You are well named Jehan of the Mill; your arms and legs look like four mill-sails turning in the wind. How long have you been here?’
‘By the devil’s mercy,’ Joannes Frollo replied; ‘more than four hours now, and I have every hope of having them counted against my time in purgatory. I heard the eight singing-men of the King of Sicily* intone the opening verse of the seven o’clock High Mass from the Sainte-Chapelle.’
‘Fine singers,’ retorted the other; ‘their voices are even sharper than their pointed caps! Before he endowed a mass for St John, the King should have found out whether the worthy St John enjoys Latin chanted with a Provençal accent.’
‘He did it to give work to those damned singers of the King of Sicily!’ screeched an old woman in the crowd below the window. ‘I ask you! A thousand livres parisis for a mass! And paid for from the tax on salt-water fish sold in the Paris market, what’s more!’
‘Hold your peace, old woman,’ put in a stout and stately individual holding his nose as he stood beside the fishwife; ‘a mass certainly had to be endowed. Surely you didn’t want the King to fall sick again?’
‘Bravely spoken, Sir Gilles Lecornu, master skinner and furrier of the King’s wardrobe!’ cried the little student clinging to the capital.
A roar of laughter from all the students greeted the unfortunate name of the poor skinner-furrier of the King’s wardrobe.
‘Lecornu! Gilles Lecornu!’ said some.
‘Cornutus et hirsutus [Horned and hairy],’ added another.
‘Eh, no doubt,’ went on the little demon on the capital. ‘What is there to laugh at? There is his Honour Gilles Lecornu, brother of Maître Jacques Lecornu, provost of the King’s household, son of Maître Mahiet Lecornu, head porter of the Bois de Vincennes, all burghers of Paris, all married from father to son!’
The merriment increased. The stout furrier, without answering a word, strove to escape the eyes gazing at him from every side, but he sweated and puffed in vain; like a wedge being driven into wood, the only result of his efforts was to clamp still more tightly between his neighbours’ shoulders his great apoplectic face, purple with vexation and rage.
Finally one of these neighbours, short, stout, and respectable like him, came to his aid:
‘How abominable! Students talking like that to a respectable citizen! In my time they would have been thrashed with a big stick and then burned with it.’
The whole band burst out: ‘Ho there! Who is singing that song? Who is that screechowl of ill omen?’
‘There, I know who he is,’ said one; ‘he’s Maître Andry Musnier.’
‘Because he’s one of the four official booksellers of the University!’ said the other.
‘Everything in that dump goes in fours,’ cried a third; ‘four nations, four faculties, four holidays, four proctors, four electors, four booksellers.’
‘Well then,’ Jehan Frollo put in, ‘we’ll have to play four kinds of merry hell with them.’
‘Musnier, we’ll burn your books.’
‘Musnier, we’ll thrash your lackey.’
‘Musnier, we’ll rumple your wife.’
‘Good stout Mademoiselle Oudarde.’
‘As fresh and merry as if she were a widow.’
‘Devil take you!’ muttered Maître Andry Musnier.
‘Maître Andry,’ Jehan went on, still hanging on to his capital, ‘shut up, or I’ll drop on
your head!’
Maître Andry looked up, seemed for a moment to be gauging the height of the pillar, the weight of the young rascal, mentally multiplied that weight by the square of the velocity, and shut up.
Jehan, master of the battlefield, pressed on in triumph: ‘I’d do it too, even if I am an archdeacon’s brother!’
‘Fine fellows, our University people! Didn’t even see that our privileges were respected on a day like this! Why, there’s a maypole and a bonfire in the Town; a mystery play, Pope of Fools, and a Flemish embassy in the City; and in the University not a thing!’
‘Yet the Place Maubert is big enough!’ replied one of the clerks stationed on the window ledge.
‘Down with the rector, the electors and the proctors!’ cried Joannes.
‘We must make a bonfire this evening in the Champ-Gaillard,’ the other continued, ‘with Maître Andry’s books.’
‘And the scribes’ desks!’
‘And the beadles’ wands!’
‘And the deans’ spittoons!’
‘And the proctors’ sideboards!’
‘And the electors’ chests!’
‘And the rector’s stools!’
‘Down with them all!’ little Jehan chimed in with the chorus; ‘down with Maître Andry, the beadles and the scribes, the theologians, doctors, and canon lawyers; the proctors, the electors, and the rector!’
‘This is the end of the world then,’ murmured Andry, stopping up his ears.
‘Talk of the rector! Here he comes, down in the Place!’ cried one of those on the window ledge.
Everyone tried to turn round and face the Place.
‘Is that really our venerable rector, Maître Thibaut?’ asked Jehan Frollo du Moulin., who could not see what was going on outside from the inside pillar to which he clung.
‘Yes, yes,’ all the others answered, ‘it’s him, it’s him all right, Maître Thibaut, the rector.’
It was indeed the rector and all the University dignitaries going in procession to meet the embassy, and at that moment crossing the Place du Palais. The students, pressing at the window, greeted them as they passed by with sarcastic sallies and ironic applause. The rector, riding at the head of his company, took the first broadside: it was a rough one.
‘Good-day, Monsieur le Recteur! Hello there! Good-day to you!’
‘How did he manage to be here, the old gambler? Did he leave his dice behind?’
‘Look at him trotting along on his mule! Its ears aren’t as long as his!’
‘Hey there! Good-day, Monsieur le Recteur Thibaut! Thybalde aleatorl [Thibaut the gambler] Silly old fool! Old gambler!’
‘God save you! Did you throw many double sixes last night?’
‘Oh! what a decrepit sight! his face all grey and drawn and hollow-eyed because he’s so fond of gambling and dice!’
‘Where are you going then, Tybalde ad dados [Thibaut the dice], turning your back on the University and trotting off towards the Town?’
‘He’s probably going to look for lodgings in the rue Thibautodé,’* cried Jehan du Moulin.
The whole band repeated the pun in thunderous tones, with frenzied clapping.
‘You are off to look for lodgings in the rue Thibautodé, aren’t you, Monsieur le Recteur, the man who gambles with the devil?’
Then came the turn of the other dignitaries.
‘Down with the beadles! Down with the mace-bearers!’
‘Tell me, Robin Poussepain, who’s that fellow?’
‘That’s Gilbert de Suilly, Gilbertus de Soliaco, chancellor of the Collège d’Autun.’
‘Here, here’s my shoe; you are better placed than I am, throw it in his face.’
‘Saturnalitias mittimus ecce nuces [Here we send some Saturnalian nuts].’*
‘Down with the six theologians in their white surplices!’
‘Are they theologians there? I thought they were the six white geese Sainte-Geneviève* pays the town for the fief of Roogny.’
‘Down with the doctors!’
‘Down with all disputations, the regular ones and the occasional ones* too.’
‘Here’s my cap for you, chancellor of Sainte-Geneviève! You did me down—yes, it’s quite true! He gave my place in the Norman nation to little Ascanio Falzaspada, who belongs to the province of Bourges, since he’s Italian.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said all the students. ‘Down with the chancellor of Sainte-Geneviève!’
‘Hey there! Maître Joachim de Ladehors! Hey! Louis Dahuille! Hey! Lambert Hoctement!’
‘Devil choke the proctor of the German nation!’
‘And the chaplains of the Sainte-Chapelle with their grey amices, cum tunicis grisis!’
‘Seu de pellibus grisis fourratisl [Or lined with grey fur!]’
‘Hey there! masters of arts! Look at all those fine black copes! all those fine red copes!’
‘That makes a fine tail for the rector.’
‘It’s like the Doge of Venice going to wed the sea.’
‘I say, Jehan! the canons of Sainte-Geneviève!’
‘Devil take the canonry!’
‘Abbot Claude Choart! Doctor Claude Choart! Are you looking for Marie la Giffarde?’
‘She’s in the rue de Glatigny.’
‘Making the bed for the chief inspector of bawds.’
‘Paying her fourpence: quattuor denarios.’
‘Aut unum bombum [Or a fart].’
‘Do you want her to pay you on the nose?’
‘Comrades! Maître Simon Sanguin, elector of Picardy, with his wife on the pillion.’
‘Post equitem sedet atra cura [Dark care sits behind the rider].’*
‘Bold man, Maître Simon!’
‘Good-day, Monsieur the Elector!’
‘Good-night, Madame the Electress!’
‘Aren’t they lucky to be able to see it all,’ said Joannes de Molendino with a sigh, still perched up on the foliage of his capital.
Meanwhile the University’s official bookseller, Maître Andry Musnier, bent to whisper in the ear of the furrier of the King’s wardrobe, Maître Gilles Lecornu.
‘I tell you, monsieur, it’s the end of the world. The students’ behaviour has never been so outrageous. It’s all these damnable modern inventions that are the ruin of everything. Artillery, serpentines, bombards, and especially printing, that other plague from Germany. It’s the end of manuscripts, the end of books! Printing is killing off the book trade. The end of the world is at hand!’
‘I can see that from the way velvet material is coming in,’ said the furrier.
At that moment the clock struck twelve.
‘Ah!’ said the whole crowd with one voice. The students fell silent, then there was a great bustling about, a great moving of heads and feet, a great explosion of coughs and nose-blowing; everyone settled in their chosen positions, stood on tiptoe, bunched together; then a great silence fell; every neck remained outstretched, every mouth open, every eye turned to the marble table. Nothing appeared. The bailiff’s four sergeants still stood there, stiff and motionless as four painted statues. All eyes turned to the tribune reserved for the Flemish envoys. The door remained closed, the tribune empty. This crowd had been waiting since early morning for three things: noon, the embassy from Flanders, the mystery play. Only noon had been punctual.
This was really too much.
They waited one, two, three, five minutes, a quarter of an hour; nothing came. The tribune stayed empty, the stage silent. Meanwhile impatience gave way to anger. People were expressing annoyance, still quietly, it is true. ‘The mystery! The mystery!’ came a subdued murmur. The mood was one of ferment. A storm, as yet only rumbling, hovered over the surface of the crowd. It was Jehan du Moulin who struck the first spark.
‘The mystery, and to hell with the Flemings!’ he yelled with all the strength of his lungs, writhing like a serpent round his capital.
The crowd clapped their hands. ‘The mystery!’ they repeated, ‘and to hell with F
landers!’
‘We want the mystery, and we want it now,’ went on the student, ‘or methinks we should hang the bailiff of the Palais by way of comedy and morality.’
‘Well spoken,’ cried the people; ‘let’s start the hanging with his sergeants.’
This met with loud cheers. The four poor devils began to go pale and looked at each other. The mob moved towards them, and they could already see the flimsy wooden balustrade separating them from it begin to bend and bulge under pressure from the crowd.
The moment was critical.
‘String them up! string them up!’ rose the cry on every side.
At that moment the curtain of the dressing room described earlier parted, and through it came an individual whose mere appearance stopped the crowd and as if by magic changed its anger into curiosity.
‘Silence! silence!’
This person, by no means reassured and shaking in every limb, came up to the edge of the marble table, with frequent bows, and the nearer he came the more they looked like genuflexions.
Meanwhile calm had been gradually restored. All that remained was the slight murmur always given off by a silent crowd.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘and ladies, citizens of this town, we are to have the honour of declaiming and performing before his Eminence Monsieur le Cardinal a very fine morality play entitled: The Good Judgement of Our Lady the Virgin Mary. I play Jupiter. His Eminence is at this moment accompanying the most honourable embassy of Monsieur the Duke of Austria; which is being delayed at the present moment while they listen to the address of Monsieur the Rector of the University at the Porte Baudets. As soon as the most eminent cardinal appears we shall begin.’
It is certain that nothing less than Jupiter’s intervention could have saved the four unfortunate sergeants of the bailiff of the Palais. If we had been fortunate enough to invent this most truthful story and consequently to have to answer for it before Our Lady of Criticism, we could not at this moment be charged with the Classical precept: Ne deus intersit [Let there be no divine intervention].* Besides, Lord Jupiter’s costume was most handsome and had helped considerably in calming the crowd by attracting all its attention. Jupiter wore a coat of mail covered in black velvet, with gilt studs; on his head was a bycocket decorated with silver-gilt buttons; and but for the rouge and bushy beard which each covered half his face; but for the scroll of gilded pasteboard, sprinkled with sequins and bristling with strips of tinsel, in his hand, easily recognized by expert eyes as thunderbolts; but for his flesh-coloured feet, sporting ribbons in the Grecian style, he might have borne comparison, for the severity of his appearance, with a Breton archer of Monsieur de Berry’s corps.
