gnant to you; and it is very natural, for you
bourgeois are not accustomed to it. You form for yourselves a great idea
of the thing. After all, we don't wish you any harm. Here is a means
of extricating yourself from your predicament for the moment. Will you
become one of us?"

The reader can judge of the effect which this proposition produced upon
Gringoire, who beheld life slipping away from him, and who was beginning
to lose his hold upon it. He clutched at it again with energy.

"Certainly I will, and right heartily," said he.

"Do you consent," resumed Clopin, "to enroll yourself among the people
of the knife?"

"Of the knife, precisely," responded Gringoire.

"You recognize yourself as a member of the free bourgeoisie?"* added the
King of Thunes.

* A high-toned sharper.

"Of the free bourgeoisie."

"Subject of the Kingdom of Argot?"

"Of the Kingdom of Argot*."

* Thieves.

"A vagabond?"

"A vagabond."

"In your soul?"

"In my soul."

"I must call your attention to the fact," continued the king, "that you
will be hung all the same."

"The devil!" said the poet.

"Only," continued Clopin imperturbably, "you will be hung later on, with
more ceremony, at the expense of the good city of Paris, on a handsome
stone gibbet, and by honest men. That is a consolation."

"Just so," responded Gringoire.

"There are other advantages. In your quality of a high-toned sharper,
you will not have to pay the taxes on mud, or the poor, or lanterns, to
which the bourgeois of Paris are subject."

"So be it," said the poet. "I agree. I am a vagabond, a thief, a
sharper, a man of the knife, anything you please; and I am all that
already, monsieur, King of Thunes, for I am a philosopher; _et omnia in
philosophia, omnes in philosopho continentur_,--all things are contained
in philosophy, all men in the philosopher, as you know."

The King of Thunes scowled.

"What do you take me for, my friend? What Hungarian Jew patter are you
jabbering at us? I don't know Hebrew. One isn't a Jew because one is
a bandit. I don't even steal any longer. I'm above that; I kill.
Cut-throat, yes; cutpurse, no."

Gringoire tried to slip in some excuse between these curt words, which
wrath rendered more and more jerky.

"I ask your pardon, monseigneur. It is not Hebrew; 'tis Latin."

"I tell you," resumed Clopin angrily, "that I'm not a Jew, and that I'll
have you hung, belly of the synagogue, like that lit