One day he had halted near Saint Germain-l’Auxerrois, at the corner of a mansion called “For-l’Ev�que “ (the Bishop’s Tribunal), which stood opposite another called “For-l�-Roi” (the King’s Tribunal). At this For-l’Ev�que, there was a charming chapel of the fourteenth century, whose apse was on the street.

Gringoire was devoutly examining its exterior sculptures. He was in one of those moments of egotistical, exclusive, supreme, enjoyment when the artist beholds nothing in the world but art, and the world in art. All at once he feels a hand laid gravely on his shoulder. He turns round. It was his old friend, his former master, monsieur the archdeacon.

He was stupefied. It was a long time since he had seen the