IT so happened that one fine morning in that same month of March, I think it was Saturday the 29th, Saint Eustache's day,⋆ our young student friend, Jehan Frollo du Moulin, noticed as he got dressed that his breeches, which contained his purse, emitted no clink of metal. 'Poor purse!' he said, pulling it out from his fob. 'What? not the least little parisis? How cruelly dice, pots of beer, and Venus have gutted you! Look at you now, all empty, wrinkled, and limp! You look like a Fury's breast! I ask you, messer Cicero and messer Seneca, whose dog-eared works I see scattered over the floor, what is the use of my knowing better than a director of the mint or a Jew on the Pont-aux- Changeurs that a gold écu with a crown on it is worth 35 unzains of 25 sols 8deniers parisis each, and that an écu with a crescent is worth 36 unzains of 26 sols and 6 deniers tournois apiece if I don't have a wretched black liard to risk on the double six! Oh! consul Cicero! That's not the sort of calamity you can get out of with periphrases like quemadmodum [in such a way] or verum enim vero [but in point of fact].' He dressed gloomily. A thought had occurred to him as he was lacing up his boots, but at first he rejected it; however, it came again, and he put his waistcoat on back to front, an obvious sign of violent inner struggle. Finally he threw his cap roughly to the ground and exclaimed: 'Too bad! Come of it what may, I'll go to my brother. I'll get a sermon, but I'll get an écu too.'
Then he hurried to put on his tabard with its padded shoulders, picked up his cap, and went out like a man in despair.
He went down the rue de la Harpe towards the Cité. As he passed by the rue de la Huchette, the smell from those wonderful spits ceaselessly turning there came to tickle his olfactory organs, and he looked lovingly at the Cyclopean