The word alchemist suddenly recalled the Archdeacon Claude Frollo to his mind.He remembered the scene of violence of which he had just caught a glimpse—that the gipsy was struggling between two men，that Quasimodo had had a companion，and then the morose and haughty features of the Archdeacon passed vaguely through his memory.'That would be strange，'thought he，and immediately with this datum and from this basis began raising a fantastic edifice of hypothesis，that house of cards of the philosophers.Then，returning suddenly to the practical，'Why，I am freezing！'he cried.
His position was indeed becoming less and less tenable.Each molecule of water in the gutter carried away a molecule of heat from Gringoire's loins，and the equilibrium between the temperature of the body and the temperature of the water was being established in a rapid and painful manner.
Presently he was assailed by an annoyance of quite another character.
A troop of children，of those little barefooted savages who in all times have run about the streets of Paris under the immemorial name of'gamins，'and who，when we too were young，would throw stones at us when we came out of school because our breeches were not in rags—a swarm of these young gutter-snipes came running towards the spot where Gringoire lay，laughing and shouting in a manner that showed little regard for the slumbers of their neighbours.After them they dragged some shapeless bundle，and the clatter of their wooden shoes alone was enough to wake the dead.Gringoire，who had not quite reached that pass，raised himself up on his elbow.
'Ohè！Hennequin Dandèche！Ohè！Jehan Pincebourde！'they bawled at the pitch of their voices，'old Eustache Moubon，the ironmonger at the corner，is just dead.We've got his straw mattress，and we're going to make a bonfire of it.Come on！'
And with that they flung the mattress right on top of Gringoire，whom they had come up to without perceiving，while at the same time one of them took a handful of straw and lit it at the Blessed Virgin's lamp.
'Mort-Christ！'gasped Gringoire，'am I going to be too hot now？'
The moment was critical.He was on the point of being caught between fire and water.He made a superhuman effort—such as a coiner would make to escape being boiled alive—staggered to his feet，heaved the mattress back upon the boys，and fled precipitately.
'Holy Virgin！'yelled the gamins，'it is the iron-monger's ghost！'
And they too ran away.
The mattress remained master of the field.Belleforêt，Father Le Juge，and Corrozet assert that next day it was picked up by the clergy of that district and conveyed with great pomp and ceremony to the treasury of the Church of Saint Opportune，where，down to 1789 the sacristan drew a handsome income from the great miracle worked by the image of the Virgin at the corner of the Rue Mauconseil，the which，by its mere presence，had on the memorable night between the sixth and seventh of January，1482，exorcised the defunct Eustache Moubon，who，to balk the devil，had，when dying，cunningly hidden his soul in his mattress.
Chapter 6-The Broken Pitcher
After running for some time as fast as his legs could carry him without knowing whither，rushing head foremost into many a street corner，leaping gutters，traversing numberless alleys，courts，and streets，seeking flight and passage among the endless meanderings of the old street round the Halles，exploring in his blind panic what the elegant Latin of the Charters describes as'tota via，cheminum et viaria，'our poet suddenly drew up short，first because he was out of breath，and secondly because an unexpected idea gripped his mind.
'It appears to me，M re Pierre Gringoire，'he apostrophized himself，tapping his forehead，'that you must be demented to run thus.Those little ragamuffins were just as frightened of you as you of them.If I mistake not，you heard the clatter of their sabots ****** off southward，while you were fleeing to the north.Now of two things one：either they ran away，and the mattress，forgotten in their flight，is precisely the hospitable bed you have been searching for since the morning，and which Our Lady conveys to you miraculously as a reward for having composed in her honour a Morality accompanied by triumphs and mummeries；or，on the other hand，the boys have not run away，and，in that case，they have set fire to the mattress，which will be exactly the fire you are in need of to cheer，warm，and dry you.In either case—good fire or good bed—the mattress is a gift from Heaven.The thrice-blessed Virgin Mary at the corner of the Rue Mauconseil has maybe caused Eustache Moubon to die for that identical purpose，and it is pure folly on your part to rush off headlong，like a Picard running from a Frenchman，leaving behind what you are seeking in front—decidedly you are an idiot！'
Accordingly，he began to retrace his steps，and with much seeking，ferreting about，nose on the scent，and ears pricked，he endeavoured to find his way back to that blessed mattress—but in vain.It was one maze of intersecting houses，blind alleys，and winding streets，among which he hesitated and wavered continually，more bewildered and entangled in this network of dark alleys than he would have been in the real labyrinth of the Hotel des Tournelles.Finally he lost patience and swore aloud：'A malediction upon these alleys！The devil himself must have made them after the pattern of his pitchfork！'
Somewhat relieved by this outburst，next moment his nerve was completely restored by catching sight of a red glow at the end of a long，narrow street.
'Heaven be praised！'said he，'there it is—that must be the blaze of my mattress，'and likening himself to a pilot in danger of foundering in the night，'Salve，'he added piously，'Salve maris stella！'but whether this fragment of litany was addressed to the Virgin or to the mattress，we really are unable to say.