There was another good part， that of the king of Mesopotamia；but through so many interruptions， it was difficult to make out what end he served. All these persons had ascended by the ladder to the stage.
But all was over； none of these beauties had been felt nor understood. On the entrance of the cardinal， one would have said that an invisible magic thread had suddenly drawn all glances from the marble table to the gallery， from the southern to the western extremity of the hall. Nothing could disenchant the audience； all eyes remained fixed there， and the new-comers and their accursed names， and their faces， and their costumes， afforded a continual diversion. This was very distressing. With the exception of Gisquette and Liénarde， who turned round from time to time when Gringoire plucked them by the sleeve； with the exception of the big， patient neighbor， no one listened， no one looked at the poor， deserted morality full face. Gringoire saw only profiles.
With what bitterness did he behold his whole erection of glory and of poetry crumble away bit by bit！ And to think that these people had been upon the point of instituting a revolt against the bailiff through impatience to hear his work！ now that they had it they did not care for it. This same representation which had been begun amid so unanimous an acclamation！ Eternal flood and ebb of popular favor！ To think that they had been on the point of hanging the bailiff's sergeant！ What would he not have given to be still at that hour of honey！
But the usher's brutal monologue came to an end； every one had arrived， and Gringoire breathed freely once more；the actors continued bravely. But Master Coppenole， the hosier， must needs rise of a sudden， and Gringoire was forced to listen to him deliver， amid universal attention， the following abominable harangue.
"Messieurs the bourgeois and squires of Paris， I don't know， cross of God！ what we are doing here. I certainly do see yonder in the corner on that stage， some people who appear to be fighting. I don't know whether that is what you call a "mystery，" but it is not amusing； they quarrel with their tongues and nothing more. I have been waiting for the first blow this quarter of an hour； nothing comes； they are cowards who only scratch each other with insults. You ought to send for the fighters of London or Rotterdam； and， I can tell you！ you would have had blows of the fist that could be heard in the Place； but these men excite our pity. They ought at least， to give us a moorish dance， or some other mummer！ That is not what was told me； I was promised a feast of fools， with the election of a pope. We have our pope of fools at Ghent also； we're not behindhand in that， cross of God！ But this is the way we manage it； we collect a crowd like this one here， then each person in turn passes his head through a hole， and makes a grimace at the rest； time one who makes the ugliest， is elected pope by general acclamation；that's the way it is. It is very diverting. Would you like to make your pope after the fashion of my country？ At all events， it will be less wearisome than to listen to chatterers.
If they wish to come and make their grimaces through the hole， they can join the game. What say you， Messieurs les bourgeois？ You have here enough grotesque specimens of both ***es， to allow of laughing in Flemish fashion， and there are enough of us ugly in countenance to hope for a fine grinning match."Gringoire would have liked to retort； stupefaction， rage， indignation， deprived him of words. Moreover， the suggestion of the popular hosier was received with such enthusiasm by these bourgeois who were flattered at being called "squires，" that all resistance was useless. There was nothing to be done but to allow one's self to drift with the torrent.
Gringoire hid his face between his two hands， not being so fortunate as to have a mantle with which to veil his head， like Agamemnon of Timantis.