am shivering, and I owe twelve sous, and my shoe-soles are worn so thin they would do to glaze thy lantern. I thank thee, ferry-man; thy cabin is soothing to my sight, and makes me forget Paris.”

Here he was startled out of his well-nigh lyric ecstasy by the explosion of a great double rocket which suddenly went up from the thrice happy cabin. It was the ferry-man adding his contribution to the festivities of the day by letting off some fire-works.

At this Gringoire fairly bristled with rage.

“Accursed festival!” cried he; “is there no escape from it?—not even on the cattle ferry-man’s islet?”

He gazed on the Seine at his feet, and a horrible temptation assailed him.

“Oh, how gladly would I drown myself,” said he, “if only the water were not so cold!”

It was then he formed the desperate resolve that, as there was no escape from the Pope of Fools, from Jehan Fourbault’s painted banners, from the bunches of may, from the squibs and rockets, he would boldly cast himself into the very heart of the merry-making and go to the Place de Gréve.

“There at least,” he reflected, “I may manage to get a brand from the bonfire whereat to warm myself, and to sup off some remnant of the three great armorial devices in sugar which have been set out on the public buffets of the city.”