of
inquiry; the masters in black gowns, the messires in red."

"Who is that big red fellow, yonder above them, who is sweating?"
pursued Gringoire.

"It is monsieur the president."

"And those sheep behind him?" continued Gringoire, who as we have seen,
did not love the magistracy, which arose, possibly, from the grudge
which he cherished against the Palais de Justice since his dramatic
misadventure.

"They are messieurs the masters of requests of the king's household."

"And that boar in front of him?"

"He is monsieur the clerk of the Court of Parliament."

"And that crocodile on the right?"

"Master Philippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary of the king."

"And that big, black tom-cat on the left?"

"Master Jacques Charmolue, procurator of the king in the Ecclesiastical
Court, with the gentlemen of the officialty."

"Come now, monsieur," said Gringoire, "pray what are all those fine
fellows doing yonder?"

"They are judging."

"Judging whom? I do not see the accused."

"'Tis a woman, sir. You cannot see her. She has her back turned to us,
and she is hidden from us by the crowd. Stay, yonder she is, where you
see a group of partisans."

"Who is the woman?" asked Gringoire. "Do you know her name?"

"No, monsieur, I have but just arrived. I merely assume that there is
some sorcery about it, since the official is present at the trial."

"Come!" said our philosopher, "we are going to see all these magistrates
devour human flesh. 'Tis as good a spectacle as any other."

"Monsieur," remarked his neighbor, "think you not, that Master Jacques
Charmolue has a very sweet air?"

"Hum!" replied Gringoire. "I distrust a sweetness which hath pinched
nostrils and thin lips."

Here the bystanders imposed silence upon the two chatterers. They were
listening to an important deposition.

"Messeigneurs," said an old woman in the middle of the hall, whose form
was so concealed beneath her garments that one would have pronounced her
a walking heap of rags; "Messeigneurs, the thing is as true as that I
am la Falourdel, established these forty years at the Pont Saint Michel,
and paying regularly my rents, lord's dues, and quit rents; at the gate
opposite the house of Tassin-Caillart, the dyer, which is on the side
up the river--a poor old woman now, but a pretty maid in former days,
my lords. Some one said to me lately, 'La Falourdel, don't use your
spinning-wheel too much in the evening; the devil is fond of combi