The poor poet looked about him.He was，in fact，in that Cour des Miracles where never honest man penetrated at such an hour—a magic circle wherein any officer of the Chatelet or sergeant of the Provostry intrepid enough to risk entering vanished in morsels—a city of thieves，a hideous sore on the face of Paris；a drain whence flowed forth each morning，to return at night，that stream of iniquity，of mendacity，and vagabondage which flows forever through the streets of a capital；a monstrous hive to which all the hornets that prey on the social order return at night，laden with their booty；a fraudulent hospital where the Bohemian，the unfrocked monk，the ruined scholar，the good-for-nothing of every nation—Spaniards，Italians，Germans—and of every creed—Jews，Turks，and infidels—beggars covered with painted sores during the day were transformed at night into robbers：in a word，a vast green-room，serving at that period for all the actors in that eternal drama of robbery，prostitution，and murder enacted on the streets of Paris.
It was a vast open space，irregular and ill-paved，as were all the squares of Paris at that time.Fires，around which swarmed strange groups，gleamed here and there.It was one ceaseless movement and clamour，shrieks of laughter，the wailing of babies，the voices of women.The hands and heads of this crowd threw a thousand grotesque outlines on the luminous background.The light of the fires flickered over the ground mingled with huge indefinite shadows，and across it from time to time passed some animal-like man or man-like animal.The boundary lines between race and species seemed here effaced as in a pandemonium.Men，women，beasts，age，sex，health and sickness，all seemed to be in common with this people；all was shared，mingled，confounded，superimposed，each one participated in all.
The faint and unsteady gleam of the fires enabled Gringoire through all his perturbation to distinguish that the great square was enclosed in a hideous framework of ancient houses，which，with their mouldering，shrunken，stooping fronts，each pierced by one or two round lighted windows，looked to him in the dark like so many old women's heads，monstrous and cross-grained，ranged in a circle，and blinking down upon these witches'revels.
It was like another and an unknown world，undreamt of，shapeless，crawling，swarming，fantastic.
Gringoire，growing momentarily more affrighted，held by the three beggars as by so many vices，bewildered by a crowd of other faces that bleated and barked round him—the luckless Gringoire strove to collect his mind sufficiently to remember whether this was really Saturday—the witches'Sabbath.But all his efforts were useless—the link between his memory and his brain was broken；and doubtful of everything，vacillating between what he saw and what he felt，he asked himself this insoluble question：'If I am I，then what is this？If this is real，then what am I？'
At this moment an intelligible cry detached itself from the buzzing of the crowd surrounding him：'Take him to the King！Take him to the King！'
'Holy Virgin！'muttered Gringoire，'the King of this place？He must be a goat！'
'To the King！To the King！'they shouted in chorus.
They dragged him away，each striving to fasten his claws on him；but the three beggars would not loose their hold，and tore him from the others，yelling：'He belongs to us！'
The poet's doublet，already sadly ailing，gave up the ghost in this struggle.
In traversing the horrible place his giddiness passed off，and after proceeding a few paces he had entirely recovered his sense of reality.He began to adapt himself to the atmosphere of the place.In the first moments there had arisen from his poet's head，or perhaps quite simply and prosaically from his empty stomach，a fume，a vapour，so to speak，which，spreading itself between him and the surrounding objects，had permitted him to view them only through the incoherent mist of a nightmare，that distorting twilight of our dreams which exaggerates and misplaces every outline，crowding objects together in disproportionate groups，transforming ordinary things into chimeras and men into monstrous phantoms.By degrees，this hallucination gave place to a less bewildered，less exaggerated state of mind.The real forced itself upon him—struck upon his eyes—struck against his feet—and demolished，piece by piece，the terrifying vision by which at first he had imagined himself surrounded.He now perforce was aware that he was walking not through the Styx，but through the mud；that he was being hustled not by demons，but by thieves；that not his soul，but in simple sooth his life，was in danger（since he was without that invaluable conciliator which interposes so efficaciously between the robber and the honest man—the purse）；in short，on examining the orgy more closely and in colder blood，he was obliged to climb down from the witches'Sabbath to the pot-house.
And，in truth，the Court of Miracles was nothing more nor less than a huge tavern；but a tavern for brigands，as red with blood as ever it was with wine.
The spectacle which presented itself to him when his ragged escort at last brought him to the goal of his march，was not calculated to incline his mind to poetry，even though it were the poetry of hell.It was more than ever the prosaic and brutal reality of the pot-house.Were we not writing of the fifteenth century，we would say that Gringoire had come down from Michael Angelo to Callot.