“And when the legate passed, you remember, Gisquette? they made the assault, and the English all had their throats cut.”
“And against the gate of the Châtelet, there were very fine personages!”
“And on the Port au Change, which was all draped above!”
“And when the legate passed, they let fly on the bridge more than two hundred sorts of birds; wasn’t it beautiful, Liénarde?”
“It will be better to-day,” finally resumed their interlocutor, who seemed to listen to them with impatience.
“Do you promise us that this mystery will be fine?” said Gisquette.
“Without doubt,” he replied; then he added, with a certain emphasis,—“I am the author of it, damsels.”
“Truly?” said the young girls, quite taken aback.
“Truly!” replied the poet, bridling a little; “that is, to say, there are two of us; Jehan Marchand, who has sawed the planks and erected the framework of the theatre and the woodwork; and I, who have made the piece. My name is Pierre Gringoire.”
The author of the “Cid” could not have said “Pierre Corneille” with more pride.