But yonder, quite at the end, what is that sort of trestle work with four motley puppets upon it, and more below?
Who is that man beside the trestle, with a black doublet and a pale face?
Alas! my dear reader, it is Pierre Gringoire and his prologue.
We have all forgotten him completely.
This is precisely what he feared.
From the moment of the cardinal's entrance, Gringoire had never ceased to tremble for the safety of his prologue.

At first he had enjoined the actors, who had stopped in suspense, to continue, and to raise their voices; then, perceiving that no one was listening, he had stopped them; and, during the entire quarter of an hour that the interruption lasted, he had not ceased to stamp, to flounce about, to appeal to Gisquette and Lienarde, and to urge his neighbors to the continuance of the prologue; all in vain.

No one quitted the cardinal, the embassy, and the gallery--sole centre of this vast circle of visual rays.

We must also believe, and we say it with regret, that the prologue had begun slightly to weary the audience at the moment when his eminence had arrived, and created a diversion in so terrible a fashion.

After all, on the gallery as well as on the marble table, the spectacle was the same: the conflict of Labor and Clergy, of Nobility and Merchandise.