Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

one of you, from the witch to her cat, any jade among you who’ll have this rogue? Holà Colette la
Charonne! Elizabeth Trouvain! Simone Jodouyne! Marie Piédebou! Thonne-la-Longue! Bérarde
Fanouel! Michelle Genaille! Claude Rongeoreille! Mathurine Girorou! Hullah! Isabeau la Thierrye!
Come and look! A husband for nothing! Who’ll have him?”
Gringoire, in this miserable plight, was doubtless not exactly tempting. The ladies seemed but little
moved at the proposal, for the unfortunate man heard them answer: “No, no—hang him! Then we shall
all get some enjoyment out of him!”
Three of them, however, did come forward and inspect him. The first a big, square-faced young woman,
carefully examined the philosopher’s deplorable doublet. His coat was threadbare and with more holes in
it than a chestnut roaster. The woman made a wry face. “An old rag,” she muttered, and turning to
Gringoire, “Let’s see thy cloak.”
“I have lost it,” answered Gringoire.
“Thy hat?”
“They took it from me.”
“Thy shoes?”
“The soles are coming off.”
“Thy purse?”
“Alas!” stammered Gringoire, “I haven’t a single denier parisis.”
“Then be hanged and welcome!” retorted the woman, turning her back on him.
The second, a hideous old beldame, black and wrinkled, and so ugly as to be conspicuous even in the
Court of Miracles, came and viewed him from all sides. He almost trembled lest she should take a fancy
to him. But she muttered between her teeth, “He’s too lean,” and went away.
The third was a young girl, rosy-cheeked and not too ill-favoured. “Save me!” whispered the poor devil.
She considered him for a moment with an air of pity, then cast down her eyes, played with a fold in her
petticoat, and stood irresolute. Gringoire followed her every movement with his eyes—it was the last
gleam of hope.
“No,” she said at length, “no; Guillaume Longjoue would beat me.” So she rejoined the others.
“Comrade,” said Clopin, “you’ve no luck.”
Then standing up on his barrel: “Nobody bids?” he cried, mimicking the voice of an auctioneer to the
huge delight of the crowd. “Nobody bids? Going—going—” and, with a sign of the head to the
gallows—“gone!”
Bellevigne de l’Etoile, Andry le Rouge, François Chante-Prune again approached Gringoire.
At that moment a cry arose among the Argotiers: “La Esmeralda! la Esmeralda!”
Gringoire started, and turned in the direction whence the shouts proceeded. The crowd opened and