It was at the gates of Sorbonne itself—the great University—that Pantagruel, flushed with victory, next knocked. Sorbonne was not too proud to meet the bold Giant from Utopia in a fair combat, not of blows, but of words. For six weeks, Pantagruel maintained his theses against all the theologians, from four o'clock in the morning until six o'clock in the evening, with the exception of two hours allowed for refreshment. The contest made a great noise in the court, and most of the lords, masters of requests, presidents, counsellors, bankers, secretaries, lawyers, together with the doctors and professors of the great city, came to hear the learned talk day after day. Among all these there were, of course, some very headstrong and restive, who must needs take a hand in helping the theologians to puzzle Pantagruel; but, at the end, they themselves were routed, the most learned doctors of the Sorbonne along with all the rest.
AT THE GATES OF SORBONNE.
From that time, everybody began to talk about Pantagruel's wonderful knowledge,—as, before that, all the talk had been about his monstrous size,—even to the wash-women, roast-meat sellers, pen-knife-makers, and others, who, whenever they would catch a sight of him on the street, would poke each other in the ribs and call out: "Oh, look, there he goes!" Pantagruel would have been blind if he had not seen these good people nudge one another, and deaf if he had not heard what they were saying. He certainly was very much pleased; but that is not at all strange, since Demosthenes, the prince of Greek orators, felt the same when once, in passing along a street in Athens, an old hag pointed her skinny fingers sharp at him, screaming: "That's the man!"
So great did Pantagruel's fame become in Paris that, whenever there was a law-nut harder to crack than usual, the parties would appeal to him to decide between them, and his decisions were always so just that, strange to say, both sides would go away satisfied,—which is a thing hard to be believed, since the like is not to be seen for thirteen Jubilees. His reputation also went abroad, and, in consequence, attracted the attention of a wise Englishman named Thaumastes, who came all the way from England with the sole intention of seeing Pantagruel, and testing for himself if his knowledge was so great as had been told. On reaching Paris, Thaumastes asked where Pantagruel lodged, and, on being informed, went to the St. Denis Hotel, where he found him walking in the garden with Panurge on his arm. When his eyes first fell on the Giant, he was almost out of his senses for fear, seeing him so big and so tall. At last he managed to pluck up courage enough to salute him very courteously.
"Very true it is, mighty Sir," he said, "what Plato, prince of philosophers, once declared, that, if the image of Science were corporeal enough to be brought in all her beauty before the eyes of men, she would excite in all the world great wonder. I came disposed to wonder; now, seeing, I do more—I admire. Having heard of your renown I have left country, home, and kinsmen, and have, in spite of the long journey and the hardships of crossing the sea, presented myself here with the sole purpose of seeing you, and consulting you upon some passages of Philosophy in which I believe, and yet cannot be sure, that I am right. If you will only deign to solve my doubts, I hereby declare myself your slave. But I beg to make plain one point, and that is, that I wish to dispute through signs only, without speaking. I shall be found, if it suits Your Magnificence, in the great hall of Navarre, at seven o'clock to-morrow morning."
THAUMASTES VISITS PANTAGRUEL.
Pantagruel, although by no means sure that he knew how to argue with his fingers, replied with his usual grace to the courteous Englishman, paying him many compliments for his design of carrying on a great disputation by signs only. After which, Thaumastes, who, by the way, had not quite got over his fear of the Giant, went straight to the Cluny Hotel, where he lodged, declaring when he reached there that he had never felt so thirsty in all his life. He swore to the landlord that he thought that terrible Pantagruel was even then clutching him by his throat—so very dry and ready to choke he was.
On his side, too, Pantagruel was grievously disturbed. He did nothing in the first part of his sleep, that night, but dream about books with hard Latin titles, and visions of phantom hands hovering in the air around his head, and making passes under his very nose. All he could do was to turn and twist, and twist and turn again, in his bed, and groan, so dolefully, that Panurge, rudely wakened from his first nap, ventured to come into the room.