I'm above that; I kill.
Cut-throat, yes; cutpurse, no." Gringoire tried to slip in some excuse between these curt words, which wrath rendered more and more jerky.
"I ask your pardon, monseigneur.

It is not Hebrew; 'tis Latin." "I tell you," resumed Clopin angrily, "that I'm not a Jew, and that I'll have you hung, belly of the synagogue, like that little shopkeeper of Judea, who is by your side, and whom I entertain strong hopes of seeing nailed to a counter one of these days, like the counterfeit coin that he is!" So saying, he pointed his finger at the little, bearded Hungarian Jew who had accosted Gringoire with his _facitote caritatem_, and who, understanding no other language beheld with surprise the King of Thunes's ill-humor overflow upon him.
At length Monsieur Clopin calmed down.
"So you will be a vagabond, you knave ?" he said to our poet.
"Of course," replied the poet.
"Willing is not all," said the surly Clopin; "good will doesn't put one onion the more into the soup, and 'tis good for nothing except to go to Paradise with; now, Paradise and the thieves' band are two different things.

In order to be received among the thieves,* you must prove that you are good for something, and for that purpose, you must search the manikin." * L'argot.
"I'll search anything you like," said Gringoire.
Clopin made a sign.

Several thieves detached themselves from the circle, and returned a moment later.

They brought two thick posts, terminated at their lower extremities in spreading timber supports, which made them stand readily upon the ground; to the upper extremity of the two posts they fitted a cross-beam, and the whole constituted a very pretty portable gibbet, which Gringoire had the satisfaction of beholding rise before him, in a twinkling.