But he was too much dazed and bruised; he was forced to remain where he was.

Moreover, his hand was tolerably free; he stopped up his nose and resigned himself.
"The mud of Paris," he said to himself--for decidedly he thought that he was sure that the gutter would prove his refuge for the night; and what can one do in a refuge, except dream?
--"the mud of Paris is particularly stinking; it must contain a great deal of volatile and nitric salts.
That, moreover, is the opinion of Master Nicholas Flamel, and of the alchemists--" The word "alchemists" suddenly suggested to his mind the idea of Archdeacon Claude Frollo.

He recalled the violent scene which he had just witnessed in part; that the gypsy was struggling with two men, that Quasimodo had a companion; and the morose and haughty face of the archdeacon passed confusedly through his memory.

"That would be strange!" he said to himself.

And on that fact and that basis he began to construct a fantastic edifice of hypothesis, that card-castle of philosophers; then, suddenly returning once more to reality, "Come! I'm freezing!" he ejaculated.
The place was, in fact, becoming less and less tenable.