The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [24]
“Not at all,” replied Gisquette, blushing; “it was Liénarde who called you Master; I told her that she should say Sir.”
The two young girls cast down their eyes. The stranger, who desired nothing better than to enter into conversation with them, looked at them with a smile.
“Then you have nothing to say to me, young ladies?”
“Oh, nothing at all!” answered Gisquette.
The tall fair-haired youth drew back a pace; but the two curious creatures did not want to lose their prize.
“Sir,” said Gisquette hastily, and with the impetuosity of water rushing through a floodgate or a woman coming to a sudden resolve, “so you know that soldier who is to play the part of Madame Virgin in the mystery?”
“You mean the part of Jupiter?” replied the unknown.
“Oh, yes,” said Liénarde, “isn’t she silly? So you know Jupiter?”
“Michel Giborne?” replied the unknown. “Yes, madame.”
“He has a fine beard!” said Liénarde.
“Will it be very interesting—what they are going to recite up there?” asked Gisquette, shyly.
“Very interesting indeed,” replied the stranger, without the least hesitation.
“What is it to be?” said Liénarde.
“‘The Wise Decision of Madame Virgin Mary,’ a morality, if you please, madame.”
“Ah, that’s another thing,” replied Liénarde.
A short pause followed. The stranger first broke the silence:—
“It is quite a new morality, which has never yet been played.”
“Then it is not the same,” said Gisquette, “that was given two years ago, on the day of the legate’s arrival, and in which three beautiful girls took the part of—”
“Sirens,” said Liénarde.
“And all naked,” added the young man. Liénarde modestly cast down her eyes; Gisquette looked at her, and did the same. He continued with a smile,—
“That was a very pretty sight. This, now, is a morality, written expressly for the young Flemish madame.”
“Will they sing pastorals?” asked Gisquette.
“Fie!” said the stranger, “in a morality! You must not mix up different styles. If it were a farce, that would be another thing.”
“What a pity!” replied Gisquette. “That day there were wild men and women at the Ponceau Fountain, who fought together and made all sorts of faces, singing little songs all the while.”
“What suits a legate,” said the stranger, somewhat drily, “will hardly suit a princess.”
“And close by them,” added Liénarde, “were several bass instruments which played grand melodies.”
“And to refresh the passers-by,” continued Gisquette, “the fountain streamed wine, milk, and hippocras,o from three mouths, for all to drink who would.”
“And a little way beyond that fountain,” went on Liénarde, “at the Trinity, there was a passion-play, performed by mute characters.”
“How well I remember it!” exclaimed Gisquette,—“God on the cross, and the two thieves to right and left.”
Here the young gossips, growing excited at the recollection of the arrival of the legate, both began to talk at once.
“And farther on, at the Painters’ Gate, there were other persons richly dressed.”
“And at the Fountain of the Holy Innocents, that hunter chasing a doe, with a great noise of dogs and hunting-horns!”
“And at the Paris slaughter-house, those scaffolds representing the fortress at Dieppe!”
“And when the legate passed by, you know, Gisquette, there was an attack, and all the English had their throats cut.”
“And over against the Châtelet Gate there were very fine persons!”
“And on the Money-brokers’ Bridge, which was hung all over with tapestries!”
“And when the legate passed by, they let loose more than two hundred dozen birds of all sorts; it was very fine, Liénarde.”
“It will be finer today,” replied their listener at last, seeming to hear them with some impatience.
“Then you promise us that this play will be a fine one?” said Gisquette.
“To be sure,” he answered. Then he added with a certain emphasis: “Young ladies, I am the author of it!”
“Really?” said the young girls, much amazed.
“Really!” replied the poet, drawing himself up; “that is, there are two of us: Jehan Marchand, who sawed the planks and built the frame and did all the carpenter’s work, and I, who wrote