Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

She made her favourite little grimace. “Why, I don’t even know your name!”
“My name? If you wish to know it, here it is—Pierre Gringoire.”
“I know a finer one than that,” said she.
“Ah, cruel one!” responded the poet. “Never mind, you cannot provoke me. See, perhaps you will like
me when you know me better; besides, you have told me your story with so much confidence that it is
only fair that I should tell you something of mine. You must know, then, that my name is Pierre
Gringoire, and that my father farmed the office of notary in Gonesse. He was hanged by the
Burgundians, and my mother was murdered by the Picards at the time of the siege of Paris, twenty years
ago. So, at six years of age I was an orphan, with no sole to my foot but the pavement of Paris. How I got
through the interval from six to sixteen I should be at a loss to tell. A fruit-seller would throw me a plum
here, a baker a crust of bread there. At night I would get picked up by the watch, who put me in prison,
where at least I found a truss of straw to lie upon. All this did not prevent me from growing tall and thin,
as you perceive. In winter I warmed myself in the sun in the porch of the Hôtel de Sens, and I thought it
very absurd that the bonfires for the Feast of Saint-John should be reserved for the dog-days. At sixteen I
wished to adopt a trade. I tried everything in turn. I became a soldier, but I was lacking in courage; friar,
but I was not sufficiently pious—besides, I am a poor hand at drinking. In desperation I apprenticed
myself to a Guild of Carpenters, but I was not strong enough. I had more inclination towards being a
schoolmaster: to be sure, I could not read, but that need not have prevented me. At last I was obliged to
acknowledge that something was lacking in me for every profession; so, finding that I was good for
nothing, I, of my own free will, turned poet and composer of rhythms. That is a calling a man can adopt
when he is a vagabond, and is always better than robbing, as some young friends of mine, who are
themselves footpads, urged me to do. One fine day I was fortunate enough to encounter Dom Claude
Frollo, the reverend Archdeacon of Notre Dame. He interested himself in me, and I owe it to him that I
am to-day a finished man of letters, being well versed in Latin, from Cicero’s ‘Offices’ to the
‘Mortuology’ of the Celestine Fathers, nor ignorant of scholastics, of poetics, of music, nor even of
hermetics nor alchemy—that subtlety of subtleties. Then, I am the author of the Mystery represented
with great triumph and concourse of the people, filling the great Hall of the Palais de Justice. Moreover, I
have written a book running to six hundred pages on the prodigious comet of 1465, over which a man
lost his reason. Other successes, too, I have had. Being somewhat of an artillery carpenter, I helped in the
construction of that great bombard of Jean Maugue, which, as you know, burst on the Charenton bridge
the first time it was tried and killed four-and-twenty of the spectators. So, you see, I am not such a bad
match. I know many very pleasing tricks which I would teach your goat; for instance, to imitate the
Bishop of Paris, that accursed Pharisee whose mill-wheels splash the passengers the whole length of the
Pont-aux-Meuniers. And then my Mystery play will bring me in a great deal of money, if only they pay
me. In short, I am wholly at your service—myself, my wit, my science, and my learning; ready,
damoselle, to live with you as it shall please you—in chastity or pleasure—as man and wife, if so you
think good—as brother and sister, if it please you better.”
Gringoire stopped, waiting for the effect of his long speech on the girl. Her eyes were fixed on the
ground.
“Phœbus,” she murmured. Then, turning to the poet, “Phœbus, what does that mean?”
Gringoire, though not exactly seeing the connection between his harangue and this question, was
nothing loath to exhibit his erudition. Bridling with conscious pride, he answered: “It is a Latin word