I became a soldier； but I was not brave enough. I became a monk； but I was not sufficiently devout； and then I'm a bad hand at drinking. In despair， I became an apprentice of the woodcutters， but I was not strong enough； I had more of an inclination to become a schoolmaster； 'tis true that I did not know how to read， but that's no reason. I perceived at the end of a certain time， that I lacked something in every direction； and seeing that I was good for nothing， of my own free will I became a poet and rhymester. That is a trade which one can always adopt when one is a vagabond， and it's better than stealing， as some young brigands of my acquaintance advised me to do. One day I met by luck， Dom Claude Frollo， the reverend archdeacon of Notre-Dame. He took an interest in me， and it is to him that I to-day owe it that I am a veritable man of letters， who knows Latin from the ~de Officiis~of Cicero to the mortuology of the Celestine Fathers， and a barbarian neither in scholastics， nor in politics， nor in rhythmics， that sophism of sophisms. I am the author of the Mystery which was presented to-day with great triumph and a great concourse of populace， in the grand hall of the Palais de Justice.
I have also made a book which will contain six hundred pages， on the wonderful comet of 1465， which sent one man mad. I have enjoyed still other successes. Being somewhat of an artillery carpenter， I lent a hand to Jean Mangue's great bombard， which burst， as you know， on the day when it was tested， on the Pont de Charenton， and killed four and twenty curious spectators. You see that I am not a bad match in marriage. I know a great many sorts of very engaging tricks， which I will teach your goat； for example， to mimic the Bishop of Paris， that cursed Pharisee whose mill wheels splash passers-by the whole length of the Pont aux Meuniers.
And then my mystery will bring me in a great deal of coined money， if they will only pay me. And finally， I am at your orders， I and my wits， and my science and my letters， ready to live with you， damsel， as it shall please you， chastely or joyously； husband and wife， if you see fit； brother and sister， if you think that better."Gringoire ceased， awaiting the effect of his harangue on the young girl. Her eyes were fixed on the ground.
"'Phoebus，'" she said in a low voice. Then， turning towards the poet， "'Phoebus'，--what does that mean？"Gringoire， without exactly understanding what the connection could be between his address and this question， was not sorry to display his erudition. Assuming an air of importance， he replied，--"It is a Latin word which means 'sun.'"
"Sun！" she repeated.
"It is the name of a handsome archer， who was a god，"added Gringoire.
"A god！" repeated the gypsy， and there was something pensive and passionate in her tone.
At that moment， one of her bracelets became unfastened and fell. Gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up； when he straightened up， the young girl and the goat had disappeared.
He heard the sound of a bolt. It was a little door， communicating， no doubt， with a neighboring cell， which was being fastened on the outside.
"Has she left me a bed， at least？" said our philosopher.
He made the tour of his cell. There was no piece of furniture adapted to sleeping purposes， except a tolerably long wooden coffer； and its cover was carved， to boot； which afforded Gringoire， when he stretched himself out upon it， a sensation somewhat similar to that which Micromégas would feel if he were to lie down on the Alps.
"Come！" said he， adjusting himself as well as possible， "Imust resign myself. But here's a strange nuptial night. 'Tis a pity. There was something innocent and antediluvian about that broken crock， which quite pleased me."
