und with a blow of your
knee; you, Francois Chante-Prune, will cling to the feet of the rascal;
and you, Bellevigne, will fling yourself on his shoulders; and all three
at once, do you hear?"

Gringoire shuddered.

"Are you ready?" said Clopin Trouillefou to the three thieves, who held
themselves in readiness to fall upon Gringoire. A moment of horrible
suspense ensued for the poor victim, during which Clopin tranquilly
thrust into the fire with the tip of his foot, some bits of vine shoots
which the flame had not caught. "Are you ready?" he repeated, and opened
his hands to clap. One second more and all would have been over.

But he paused, as though struck by a sudden thought.

"One moment!" said he; "I forgot! It is our custom not to hang a man
without inquiring whether there is any woman who wants him. Comrade,
this is your last resource. You must wed either a female vagabond or the
noose."

This law of the vagabonds, singular as it may strike the reader, remains
to-day written out at length, in ancient English legislation. (See
_Burington's Observations_.)

Gringoire breathed again. This was the second time that he had
returned to life within an hour. So he did not dare to trust to it too
implicitly.

"Hola!" cried Clopin, mounted once more upon his cask, "hola! women,
females, is there among you, from the sorceress to her cat, a wench who
wants this rascal? Hola, Colette la Charonne! Elisabeth Trouvain! Simone
Jodouyne! Marie Piedebou! Thonne la Longue! Berarde Fanouel!
Michelle Genaille! Claude Ronge-oreille! Mathurine Girorou!--Hola!
Isabeau-la-Thierrye! Come and see! A man for nothing! Who wants him?"

Gringoire, no doubt, was not very appetizing in this miserable
condition. The female vagabonds did not seem to be much affected by the
proposition. The unhappy wretch heard them answer: "No! no! hang him;
there'll be the more fun for us all!"

Nevertheless, three emerged from the throng and came to smell of
him. The first was a big wench, with a square face. She examined the
philosopher's deplorable doublet attentively. His garment was worn, and
more full of holes than a stove for roasting chestnuts. The girl made a
wry face. "Old rag!" she muttered, and addressing Gringoire, "Let's see
your cloak!" "I have lost it," replied Gringoire. "Your hat?" "They took
it away from me." "Your shoes?" "They have hardly any soles left." "Your
purse?" "Alas!" stammered Gringoire, "I have not even a sou." "Let
them