Pierre Gregoire

Hunger and despair drove the poet Pierre Gringoire to the Cour des Miracles, a refuge for the Parisian poor, where the law was written in blood. Before he could even comprehend his surroundings, the poet was surrounded by shadows. Among them, he saw Clopin, the self-proclaimed king of this lawless world.

"You've come to the wrong place, poet," growled the "king. ""This is no place for your poems. There are different rules here."

Before Pierre could utter a word, the noose tightened around his neck. Fear gripped him.

"It was an accident, I'm lost!" he pleaded, but the crowd was indifferent to his despair.

"Accidental, huh?" Clopin chuckled . "There are no accidents here. It's either one of us or the dead one."

He paused, letting the words settle in the poet's frightened soul, then turned to his subjects.

"Since your worthless life is so precious to you, let someone take you as a husband! Is there a bride here for this worthless poet? I'll count to three, and if no one takes him, he'll be hanged!"

The poet's heart sank. He searched for a glimmer of mercy, but saw only indifference.

“One…” the king said, and the sound was like the blow of a hammer.

The boy felt the noose tightening around his throat, the air growing heavier. His life depended on finding a soul willing to take on the responsibility that would mean salvation. The poet's eyes frantically searched for her.