I am going to have you hanged to amuse the vagabonds, and you are to give them your purse to drink your health.

If you have any mummery to go through with, there's a very good God the Father in that mortar yonder, in stone, which we stole from Saint-Pierre aux Boeufs.
You have four minutes in which to fling your soul at his head." The harangue was formidable.
"Well said, upon my soul! Clopin Trouillefou preaches like the Holy Father the Pope!" exclaimed the Emperor of Galilee, smashing his pot in order to prop up his table.
"Messeigneurs, emperors, and kings," said Gringoire coolly (for I know not how, firmness had returned to him, and he spoke with resolution), "don't think of such a thing; my name is Pierre Gringoire.

I am the poet whose morality was presented this morning in the grand hall of the Courts." "Ah! so it was you, master!" said Clopin.

"I was there, _xete Dieu_! Well! comrade, is that any reason, because you bored us to death this morning, that you should not be hung this evening ?" "I shall find difficulty in getting out of it," said Gringoire to himself.

Nevertheless, he made one more effort: "I don't see why poets are not classed with vagabonds," said he.