All this was, in fact, very fine.

Nevertheless, in that throng, upon which the four allegories
vied with each other in pouring out floods of metaphors,
there was no ear more attentive, no heart that palpitated
more, not an eye was more haggard, no neck more outstretched,
than the eye, the ear, the neck, and the heart of
the author, of the poet, of that brave Pierre Gringoire, who
had not been able to resist, a moment before, the joy of telling
his name to two pretty girls. He had retreated a few
paces from them, behind his pillar, and there he listened,
looked, enjoyed. The amiable applause which had greeted the
beginning of his prologue was still echoing in his bosom,
and he was completely absorbed in that species of ecstatic
contemplation with which an author beholds his ideas fall,
one by one, from the mouth of the actor into the vast silence
of the audience. Worthy Pierre Gringoire!

It pains us to say it, but this first ecstasy was speedily
disturbed. Hardly had Gringoire raised this intoxicating cup of
joy and triumph to his lips, when a drop of bitterness was
mingled with it.

A tattered mendicant, who could not collect any coins, lost
as he was in the midst of the crowd, and who had not probably
found sufficient indemnity in the pockets of his neighbors,
had hit upon the idea of perching himself upon some conspicuous
point, in order to attract looks and alms. He had,
accordingly, hoisted himself, during the first verses of the
prologue, with the aid of the pillars of the reserve gallery, to