CHAPTER VI
“The Chive in the Cly”
On leaving the Bastille, Gringoire ran down the Rue Saint-Antoine with the speed of a runaway horse. On reaching the Porte Baudoyer, he walked straight up to the stone cross in the middle of the square, as if he had been able to distinguish in the darkness the figure of a man in a black dress and cowl, who sat upon the steps of the cross.
“Is it you, master?” said Gringoire.
The black figure rose.
“‘Sdeath! You make my blood boil, Gringoire. The man on the tower of Saint-Gervais has just cried half-past one.”
“Oh,” rejoined Gringoire, “it is not my fault, but that of the watch and the king. I have had a narrow escape. I always just miss being hanged; it is my fate.”
“You just miss everything,” said the other; “but make haste. Have you the password?”
“Only fancy, master, that I have seen the king! I have just left him. He wears fustian breeches. It was quite an adventure.”
“Oh, you spinner of words! What do I care for your adventure? Have you the watchword of the Vagrants?”
“I have; never fear. It is ‘the Chive in the Cly.”’ “Good! Otherwise we could not make our way to the church. The Vagrants block the streets. Luckily, it appears that they met with considerable resistance. We may yet be there in time.”
“Yes, master; but how are we to get into Notre-Dame?”
“I have the key to the towers.”
“And how shall we get out?”
“There is a small door, behind the cloisters, which opens upon the Terrain, and thence to the water. I have the key, and I moored a boat there this morning.”
“I had a pretty escape from being hanged!” repeated Gringoire.
“Come, be quick!” said the other.
Both went hurriedly towards the City.