Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

“She pays her fourpence—quatuor denarios.”
“Aut unnum bombum.”
“Would you have her pay you with one on the nose?”
“Comrades! Maître Simon Sanguin, the elector of the Nation of Picardy, with his wife on the saddle
behind him.”
“Post equitem sedet atra cura.” 15
“Good-day to you, Monsieur the Elector!”
“Good-night to you, Madame the Electress!”
“Lucky dogs to be able to see all that!” sighed Joannes de Molendino, still perched among the acanthus
leaves of his capital.
Meanwhile the bookseller of the University, Maître Andry Musnier, leaned over and whispered to the
Court furrier, Maître Gilles Lecornu:
“I tell you, monsieur, ’tis the end of the world. Never has there been such unbridled license among the
scholars. It all comes of these accursed inventions—they ruin everything—the artillery, the culverine, the
blunderbuss, and above all, printing, that second pestilence brought us from Germany. No more
manuscripts—no more books! Printing gives the death-blow to bookselling. It is the beginning of the
end.”
“I, too, am well aware of it by the increasing preference for velvet stuffs,” said the furrier.
At that moment it struck twelve.
A long-drawn “Ah!” went up from the crowd.
The scholars held their peace. There ensued a general stir and upheaval, a great shuffling of feet and
movement of heads, much coughing and blowing of noses; everyone resettled himself, rose on tip-toe,
placed himself in the most favourable position obtainable. Then deep silence, every neck outstretched,
every mouth agape, every eye fixed on the marble table. Nothing appeared; only the four sergeants were
still at their posts, stiff and motionless as four painted statues. Next, all eyes turned towards the platform
reserved for the Flemish envoys. The door remained closed and the platform empty. Since daybreak the
multitude had been waiting for three things—the hour of noon, the Flemish ambassadors, and the
Mystery-Play. Noon alone had kept the appointment. It was too bad. They waited one, two, three, five
minutes—a quarter of an hour—nothing happened. Then anger followed on the heels of impatience;
indignant words flew hither and thither, though in suppressed tones as yet. “The Mystery, the Mystery!”
they murmured sullenly. The temper of the crowd began to rise rapidly. The warning growls of the
gathering storm rumbled overhead. It was Jehan Du Moulin who struck out the first flash.
“Let’s have the Mystery, and the devil take the Flemings!” he cried at the pitch of his voice, coiling
himself about his pillar like a serpent.
The multitude clapped its approval.