The reader may perhaps remember the impudent mendicant who，at the beginning of the Prologue，had established himself upon the projection just below the Cardinal's platform.The arrival of the illustrious guests had in nowise made him quit his position，and while prelates and ambassadors were packed on the narrow platform like Dutch herrings in a barrel，the beggar sat quite at his ease with his legs crossed comfortably on the architrave.It was a unique piece of insolence，but nobody had noticed it as yet，the attention of the public being directed elsewhere.For his part，he took no notice of what was going on，but kept wagging his head from side to side with the unconcern of a Neapolitan lazzarone，and mechanically repeating his droning appeal，'Charity，I pray you！'Certain it was，he was the only person in the whole vast audience who never even deigned to turn his head at the altercation between Coppenole and the usher.Now，it so chanced that the master hosier of Ghent，with whom the people were already so much in sympathy and on whom all eyes were fixed，came and seated himself in the first row on the platform，just above the beggar.What was the amazement of the company to see the Flemish ambassador，after examining the strange figure beneath him，lean over and clap the ragged shoulder amicably.The beggar turned—surprise，recognition，and pleasure beamed from the two faces—then，absolutely regardless of their surroundings，the hosier and the sham leper fell to conversing in low tones and hand clasped in hand，Clopin Trouillefou's ragged arm against the cloth of gold draperies of the balustrade，looking like a caterpillar on an orange.
The novelty of this extraordinary scene excited such a stir of merriment in the Hall that the Cardinal's attention was attracted.He bent forward，but being unable from where he sat to do more than catch a very imperfect glimpse of Trouillefou's unsightly coat，he naturally imagined that it was merely a beggar asking alms，and，incensed at his presumption—
'Monsieur the Provost of the Palais，fling me this rascal into the river！'he cried.
'Croix-Dieu！Monseigneur the Cardinal，'said Coppenole without leaving hold of Trouillefou's hand，'it's a friend of mine.'
'N ！N ！'shouted the crowd；and from that moment Master Coppenole enjoyed in Paris as in Ghent'great favour with the people，as men of his stamp always do，'says Philippe de Comines，'when they are thus indifferent to authority.'
The Cardinal bit his lip，then he leaned over to his neighbour，the Abbot of Sainte-Geneviéve：
'Droll ambassadors these，whom Monsieur the Archduke sends to announce Madame Marguerite to us，'he said in a half whisper.
'Your Eminence wastes his courtesy on these Flemish hogs，'returned the Abbot.'Margaritas ante porcos.'
'Say rather，'retorted the Cardinal with a smile，'Porcos ante Margaritam.'
This little jeu de mots sent the whole cassocked court into ecstasies.The Cardinal's spirits rose somewhat；he was quits now with Coppenole—he，too，had had a pun applauded.
And now，with such of our readers as have the power to generalize an image and an idea，as it is the fashion to say nowadays，permit us to ask if they are able to form a clear picture of the scene presented by the vast parallelogram of the great Hall at the moment to which we draw their attention.In the middle of the western wall is the magnificent and spacious platform draped with cloth of gold，entered by a small Gothic doorway，through which files a procession of grave and reverend personages whose names are announced in succession by the strident voice of the usher.The first benches are already occupied by a crowd of venerable figures muffled in robes of ermine，velvet，and scarlet cloth.Around this platform—on which reigns decorous silence—below，opposite，everywhere，the seething multitude，the continuous hum of voices，all eyes fixed on every face on the platform，a thousand muttered repetitions of each name.In truth，a curious spectacle and worthy of the attention of the spectators.But stay，what is that kind of erection at the opposite end of the Hall，having four party-coloured puppets on it and four others underneath；and who is that pale figure standing beside it clad in sombre black？Alas！dear reader，it is none other than Pierre Gringoire and his Prologue，both of which we had utterly forgotten.
And that is exactly what he had feared.
From the moment when the Cardinal entered，Gringoire had never ceased to exert himself to keep his Prologue above water.First he had vehemently urged the actors，who had faltered，and stopped short，to proceed and raise their voices；then，perceiving that nobody was listening to them，he stopped them again，and during the quarter of an hour the interruption had lasted had never ceased tapping his foot impatiently，fuming，calling upon Gisquette and Liènarde，urging those near him to insist on the continuation of the Prologue—in vain.Not one of them would transfer his attention from the Cardinal，the Embassy，the platform—the one centre of this vast radius of vision.It must also be admitted，and we say it with regret，that by the time his Eminence appeared on the scene and caused so marked a diversion，the audience was beginning to find the Prologue just a little tedious.After all，whether you looked at the platform or the marble table，the play was the same—the conflict between Labour and Clergy，Aristocracy and Commerce.And most of them preferred to watch these personages as they lived and breathed，elbowing each other in actual flesh and blood on the platform，in the Flemish Embassy，under the Cardinal's robe or Coppenole's leathern jerkin，than painted，tricked out，speaking in stilted verse，mere dummies stuffed into yellow and white tunics，as Gringoire represented them.
Nevertheless，seeing tranquility somewhat restored，our poet bethought him of a stratagem which might have been the saving of the whole thing.
