The novelty of this singular scene excited such a murmur of mirth and gayety in the hall， that the cardinal was not slow to perceive it； he half bent forward， and， as from the point where he was placed he could catch only an imperfect view of Trouillerfou's ignominious doublet， he very naturally imagined that the mendicant was asking alms， and， disgusted with his audacity， he exclaimed： "Bailiff of the Courts， toss me that knave into the river！""Cross of God！ monseigneur the cardinal，" said Coppenole， without quitting Clopin's hand， "he's a friend of mine.""Good！ good！" shouted the populace. From that moment， Master Coppenole enjoyed in Paris as in Ghent， "great favor with the people； for men of that sort do enjoy it，" says Philippe de Comines， "when they are thus disorderly."The cardinal bit his lips. He bent towards his neighbor， the Abbé of Saint Geneviéve， and said to him in a low tone，--"Fine ambassadors monsieur the archduke sends here， to announce to us Madame Marguerite！""Your eminence，" replied the abbé， "wastes your politeness on these Flemish swine. ~Margaritas ante porcos~， pearls before swine.""Say rather，" retorted the cardinal， with a smile， "~Porcos ante Margaritam~， swine before the pearl."The whole little court in cassocks went into ecstacies over this play upon words. The cardinal felt a little relieved； he was quits with Coppenole， he also had had his jest applauded.
Now， will those of our readers who possess the power of generalizing an image or an idea， as the expression runs in the style of to-day， permit us to ask them if they have formed a very clear conception of the spectacle presented at this moment， upon which we have arrested their attention， by the vast parallelogram of the grand hall of the palace.
In the middle of the hall， backed against the western wall， a large and magnificent gallery draped with cloth of gold， into which enter in procession， through a small， arched door， grave personages， announced successively by the shrill voice of an usher. On the front benches were already a number of venerable figures， muffled in ermine， velvet， and scarlet. Around the dais--which remains silent and dignified--below， opposite， everywhere， a great crowd and a great murmur. Thousands of glances directed by the people on each face upon the dais， a thousand whispers over each name. Certainly， the spectacle is curious， and well deserves the attention of the spectators. But yonder， quite at the end， what is that sort of trestle work with four motley puppets upon it， and more below？ Who is that man beside the trestle， with a black doublet and a pale face？ Alas！ my dear reader， it is Pierre Gringoire and his prologue.
We have all forgotten him completely.
This is precisely what he feared.
From the moment of the cardinal's entrance， Gringoire had never ceased to tremble for the safety of his prologue. At first he had enjoined the actors， who had stopped in suspense， to continue， and to raise their voices； then， perceiving that no one was listening， he had stopped them； and， during the entire quarter of an hour that the interruption lasted， he had not ceased to stamp， to flounce about， to appeal to Gisquette and Liénarde， and to urge his neighbors to the continuance of the prologue； all in vain. No one quitted the cardinal， the embassy， and the gallery--sole centre of this vast circle of visual rays. We must also believe， and we say it with regret， that the prologue had begun slightly to weary the audience at the moment when his eminence had arrived， and created a diversion in so terrible a fashion. After all， on the gallery as well as on the marble table， the spectacle was the same： the conflict of Labor and Clergy， of Nobility and Merchandise. And many people preferred to see them alive， breathing， moving， elbowing each other in flesh and blood， in this Flemish embassy， in this Episcopal court， under the cardinal's robe， under Coppenole's jerkin， than painted， decked out， talking in verse， and， so to speak， stuffed beneath the yellow amid white tunics in which Gringoire had so ridiculously clothed them.
Nevertheless， when our poet beheld quiet reestablished to some extent， he devised a stratagem which might have redeemed all.
"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.
"Hé！ the Mystery，" said Gringoire.
"As you like，" returned his neighbor.
This semi-approbation sufficed for Gringoire， and， conducting his own affairs， he began to shout， confounding himself with the crowd as much as possible： "Begin the mystery again！ begin again！""The devil！" said Joannes de Molendino， "what are they jabbering down yonder， at the end of the hall？" (for Gringoire was ****** noise enough for four.) "Say， comrades， isn't that mystery finished？ They want to begin it all over again. That's not fair！""No， no！" shouted all the scholars. "Down with the mystery！ Down with it！"But Gringoire had multiplied himself， and only shouted the more vigorously： "Begin again！ begin again！"These clamors attracted the attention of the cardinal.
"Monsieur Bailiff of the Courts，" said he to a tall， black man， placed a few paces from him， "are those knaves in a holy-water vessel， that they make such a hellish noise？"The bailiff of the courts was a sort of amphibious magistrate， a sort of bat of the judicial order， related to both the rat and the bird， the judge and the soldier.
He approached his eminence， and not without a good deal of fear of the latter's displeasure， he awkwardly explained to him the seeming disrespect of the audience： that noonday had arrived before his eminence， and that the comedians had been forced to begin without waiting for his eminence.
The cardinal burst into a laugh.