Nevertheless，the great Hall was anything rather than Olympus，as Gringoire's poor Jupiter knew to his cost.A second，a third distortion followed，to be succeeded by another and another；and with each one the laughter redoubled，and the crowd stamped and roared its delight.There was in the whole scene a peculiar frenzy，a certain indescribable sense of intoxication and fascination almost impossible to convey to the reader of our times and social habits.
Picture to yourself a series of faces representing successively every geometrical form，from the triangle to the trapezium，from the cone to the polyhedron；every human expression，from rage to lewdness；every stage of life，from the creases of the newly born to the wrinkles of hoary age；every phantasm of mythology and religion，from Faunus to Beelzebub；every animal head，from the buffalo to the eagle，from the shark to the bulldog.Conceive all the grotesques of the Pont-Neuf，those nightmares turned to stone under the hand of Germain Pilon，inspired with the breath of life，and rising up one by one to stare you in the face with gleaming eyes；all the masks of the Carnival of Venice passing in procession before you—in a word，a human kaleidoscope.
The orgy became more and more Flemish.Tenniers himself could have given but a feeble idea of it；a Salvator Rosa battle-piece treated as a bacchic feast would be nearer the mark.There were no longer scholars，ambassadors，burghers，men or women；neither Clopin Trouillefou nor Gilles Lecornu nor Marie Quatrelivres nor Robin Pousse-pain.The individual was swallowed up in the universal license.The great Hall was simply one vast furnace of effrontery and unbridled mirth，in which every mouth was a yell，every countenance a grimace，every individual a posture.The whole mass shrieked and bellowed.Every new visage that came grinning and gnashing to the window was fresh fuel to the furnace.And from this seething multitude，like steam from a caldron，there rose a hum—shrill，piercing，sibilant，as from a vast swarm of gnats.
'Oh！oh！malediction！'
'Oh，look at that face！'
'That's no good.'
'Show us another.'
'Guillemette Maugrepuis，look at that ox-muzzle.It only wants horns.It can't be thy husband.'
'The next！'
'Ventre du pape！What sort of a face do you call that？'
'Holá there—that's cheating！no more than the face is to be shown！'
'Is that Perette Callebotte？—devil take her—it's just what she would do！'
'N ！N ！'
'I shall choke！'
'Here's one whose ears won't come through.'
And so on，and so on.
To do our friend Jehan justice，however，he was still visible in the midst of the pandemonium，high up on his pillar like a ship's boy in the mizzen，gesticulating like a maniac，his mouth wide open and emitting sounds that nobody heard；not because they were drowned by the all-pervading clamour，terrific as it was，but because doubtless they had reached the limit at which shrill sounds are audible—the twelve thousand vibrations of Sauveur，or the eight thousand of Biot.
As to Gringoire，the first moment of depression over，he had regained his self-possession，had stiffened his back against adversity.
'Go on，'said he for the third time to his players.'Go on，you speaking machines，'and proceeded to pace with long strides in front of the marble table.At one moment he was seized with the desire to go and present himself at the round window，if only for the gratification of pulling a face at this thankless crowd.'But no，'he said to himself，'that would be beneath our dignity—no vengeance.We will fight on to the end.The power of poetry over the people is great.I shall yet regain my hold.We shall see which will win the day，belles-lettres or grimaces.'
Alas！he was the sole spectator of his piece.
No，I am wrong.The big，patient man，whom he had already consulted at a critical moment，still faced the stage.As to Gisquette and Liènarde，they had long since deserted him.
Touched to the heart by the stanchness of this audience of one，Gringoire went up to him and accosted him，shaking him gently by the arm，for the good man was leaning against the balustrade dozing comfortably.
'Sir，'said Gringoire，'I thank you.'
'Sir，'returned the big man with a yawn，'for what？'
'I see the cause of your annoyance，'resumed the poet.'This infernal din prevents your listening in comfort.But never fear，your name shall go down to posterity.Your name，if I may ask？'
'Renault Chateau，Keeper of the Seal of the Chatelet of Paris，at your service.'
'Sir，you are the sole representative of the Muses，'said Gringoire.
'You are too good，sir，'replied the Keeper of the Seal of Chatelet.
'The one person who has paid suitable attention to the piece.What do you think of it？'
'H'm，h'm，'replied the big official drowsily.'Really quite entertaining.'
Gringoire had to be content with this faint praise，for the conversation was abruptly cut short by a thunder of applause mingled with shouts of acclamation.The Fools had elected their Pope.
'N ！N ！N ！'roared the crowd from all sides.