“You consent,” resumed Clopin, “to enrol yourself among the members of the ’petite flambe’ (the little dagger)?”

“Of the Little Dagger—certainly,” answered Gringoire.

“You acknowledge yourself a member of the Free Company?” went on the King of Tunis.

“Of the Free Company.”

“A subject of the Kingdom of Argot?”

“Of the Kingdom of Argot.”

“A Vagabond?”

“A Vagabond.”

“With heart and soul?”

“Heart and soul.”

“I would have you observe,” added the King, “that you will be none the less hanged for all that.”

Diable!” exclaimed the poet.

“Only,” continued Clopin imperturbably, “it will take place somewhat later, with more ceremony, and at the expense of the city of Paris, on a fine stone gibbet, and by honest men. That’s some consolation.”

“I am glad you think so,” responded Gringoire.

“Then, there are other advantages. As a member of the Free Company you will have to contribute neither towards the paving, the lighting, nor the poor—taxes to which the burghers of Paris are subject.”

“So be it,” said the poet. “I agree. I am a Vagabond, an Argotier, a Little Dagger—whatever you please. And, indeed, I was all that already, Monsieur the King of Tunis, for I am a philosopher and ’Omnia in philosophia, omnes in philosopho continentur’—as you are aware.”

The King of Tunis knit his brows. “What do you take me for, my friend? What Jew of Hungary’s patter are you treating us to now? I know no Hebrew. It’s not to say that because a man’s a robber he must be a Jew. Nay, indeed, I do not even thieve now—I am above that—I kill. Cutthroat, yes; cutpurse, no!”

Gringoire endeavoured to squeeze some extenuating plea between these brief ejaculations jerked at him by the offended monarch. “I ask your pardon, monsieur, but it is not Hebrew; it is Latin.”

“I tell thee,” retorted the enraged Clopin, “that I’m not a Jew, and I’ll have thee hanged, ventre de synagogue! as well as that little usurer of Judea standing beside thee, and whom I hope to see some day nailed to a counter, like the bad penny that he is.”

As he spoke, he pointed to the little bearded Hungarian Jew who had accosted Gringoire with “Facitote caritatem,” and who, understanding no other language, was much astonished that the King of Tunis should thus vent his wrath on him.

At length Monseigneur Clopin’s wrath abated.

“So, rascal,” said he to our poet, “you are willing to become a Vagabond?”

“Willingly,” replied the poet.


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