The scholars held their peace. Then a great hurly-burly
ensued; a vast movement of feet, hands, and heads; a general
outbreak of coughs and handkerchiefs; each one arranged
himself, assumed his post, raised himself up, and grouped
himself. Then came a great silence; all necks remained
outstretched, all mouths remained open, all glances were
directed towards the marble table. Nothing made its appearance
there. The bailiff's four sergeants were still there, stiff,
motionless, as painted statues. All eyes turned to the estrade
reserved for the Flemish envoys. The door remained closed,
the platform empty. This crowd had been waiting since daybreak
for three things: noonday, the embassy from Flanders, the
mystery play. Noonday alone had arrived on time.

On this occasion, it was too much.

They waited one, two, three, five minutes, a quarter of an
hour; nothing came. The dais remained empty, the theatre
dumb. In the meantime, wrath had succeeded to impatience.
Irritated words circulated in a low tone, still, it is true.
"The mystery! the mystery!" they murmured, in hollow
voices. Heads began to ferment. A tempest, which was
only rumbling in the distance as yet, was floating on the
surface of this crowd. It was Jehan du Moulin who struck
the first spark from it.

"The mystery, and to the devil with the Flemings!" he
exclaimed at the full force of his lungs, twining like a serpent
around his pillar.