Now, one thing was completely forgotten by the crowd. Pierre Gringoire and his prologue.
This was precisely what he feared.
From the moment of the cardinal’s entrance, Gringoire was worried for the safety of his prologue. At first he had asked the actors to continue, and to raise their voices; then, seeing that no one was listening, he had stopped them; all in vain.
Nevertheless, our poet decided what to do next.
“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.
“The Mystery,” said Gringoire.
“As you like,” returned his neighbor.
This sufficed for Gringoire, and he began to shout: “Begin the mystery again! Begin again!”
The bailiff approached the cardinal, and awkwardly explained to him 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.
“Monseigneur,” said Guillaume Rym, “let us be content with having escaped half of the comedy. There is at least that much gained.”
“Can these rascals continue their farce?” asked the bailiff.
“Continue, continue,” said the cardinal, “it’s all the same to me.”
The personages on the stage took up their parts, and Gringoire hoped that the rest of his work, at least, would be listened to. This hope soon faded; silence had indeed, been restored; but Gringoire did not realise that at the moment, the gallery was far from full, and that the important personages were still being announced.
“Master Jacques Charmolue, procurator to the king in the Ecclesiastical Courts!”
“Messire Galiot de Genoilhac, chevalier, seigneur de Brussac, master of the king’s artillery!”
“Master Denis le Mercier, guardian of the house of the blind at Paris!” etc., etc., etc.
This was becoming unbearable.
And still, nothing could turn the audience from the cardinal; all eyes remained fixed there. No one listened, no one looked at the poor, deserted morality. Gringoire saw only profiles.
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, all of a sudden rose and proclaimed:
“Messieurs and squires of Paris, I don’t know, what we are doing here. 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. That is not what I was told; I was promised a feast of fools, with the election of a pope. The way we manage it in Ghent is; we collect a crowd like this one here, then each person in turn puts his head through a hole, and makes a grimace; the one who makes the ugliest, is elected pope by general acclamation. What say you, Messieurs les