Notwithstanding his agitation, in this impossibility of keeping still,

he meditated. His mind liquefied as it boiled. He began to recall things

to his memory. It is surprising how we find that we have heard so

clearly that to which we scarcely listened. The declaration of the

shipwrecked men, read by the sheriff in the Southwark cell, came back to

him clearly and intelligibly. He recalled every word, he saw under it

his whole infancy.

Suddenly he stopped, his hands clasped behind his back, looking up to

the ceilings--the sky--no matter what--whatever was above him.

“Quits!” he cried.

He felt like one whose head rises out of the water. It seemed to him

that he saw everything--the past, the future, the present--in the

accession of a sudden flash of light.

“Oh!” he cried, for there are cries in the depths of thought. “Oh! it

was so, was it! I was a lord. All is discovered. They stole, betrayed,

destroyed, abandoned, disinherited, murdered me! The corpse of my

destiny floated fifteen years on the sea; all at once it touched the

earth, and it started up, erect and living. I am reborn. I am born. I

felt under my rags that the breast there palpitating was not that of a

wretch; and when I looked on crowds of men, I felt that they were the

flocks, and that I was not the dog, but the shepherd! Shepherds of the

people, leaders of men, guides and masters, such were my fathers; and

what they were I am! I am a gentleman, and I have a sword; I am a baron,

and I have a casque; I am a marquis, and I have a plume; I am a peer,

and I have a coronet. Lo! they deprived me of all this. I dwelt in

light, they flung me into darkness. Those who proscribed the father,

sold the son. When my father was dead, they took from beneath his head

the stone of exile which he had placed for his pillow, and, tying it to

my neck, they flung me into a sewer. Oh! those scoundrels who tortured

my infancy! Yes, they rise and move in the depths of my memory. Yes; I

see them again. I was that morsel of flesh pecked to pieces on a tomb by

a flight of crows. I bled and cried under all those horrible shadows.

Lo! it was there that they precipitated me, under the crush of those who

come and go, under the trampling feet of men, under the undermost of the

human race, lower than the serf, baser than the serving man, lower than

the felon, lower than the slave, at the spot where Chaos becomes a

sewer, in which I was engulfed. It is from thence that I come; it is

from this that I rise; it is from this that I am risen. And here I am

now. Quits!”

He sat down, he rose, clasped his head with his hands, began to pace the

room again, and his tempestuous monologue continued within him.

“Where am I?--on the summit? Where is it that I have just alighted?--on

the highest peak? This pinnacle, this grandeur, this dome of the world,

this great power, is my home. This temple is in air. I am one of the

gods. I live in inaccessible heights. This supremacy, which I looked up

to from below, and from whence emanated such rays of glory that I shut

my eyes; this ineffaceable peerage; this impregnable fortress of the

fortunate, I enter. I am in it. I am of it. Ah, what a decisive turn of

the wheel! I was below, I am on high--on high for ever! Behold me a

lord! I shall have a scarlet robe. I shall have an earl’s coronet on my

head. I shall assist at the coronation of kings. They will take the oath

from my hands. I shall judge princes and ministers. I shall exist. From

the depths into which I was thrown, I have rebounded to the zenith. I

have palaces in town and country: houses, gardens, chases, forests,

carriages, millions. I will give fêtes. I will make laws. I shall have

the choice of joys and pleasures. And the vagabond Gwynplaine, who had

not the right to gather a flower in the grass, may pluck the stars from

heaven!”

Melancholy overshadowing of a soul’s brightness! Thus it was that in

Gwynplaine, who had been a hero, and perhaps had not ceased to be one,

moral greatness gave way to material splendour. A lamentable transition!

Virtue broken down by a troop of passing demons. A surprise made on the

weak side of man’s fortress. All the inferior circumstances called by

men superior, ambition, the purblind desires of instinct, passions,

covetousness, driven far from Gwynplaine by the wholesome restraints of

misfortune, took tumultuous possession of his generous heart. And from

what had this arisen? From the discovery of a parchment in a waif

drifted by the sea. Conscience may be violated by a chance attack.

Gwynplaine drank in great draughts of pride, and it dulled his soul.

Such is the poison of that fatal wine.

Giddiness invaded him. He more than consented to its approach. He

welcomed it. This was the effect of previous and long-continued thirst.

Are we an accomplice of the cup which deprives us of reason? He had

always vaguely desired this. His eyes had always turned towards the

great. To watch is to wish. The eaglet is not born in the eyrie for

nothing.

Now, however, at moments, it seemed to him the simplest thing in the

world that he should be a lord. A few hours only had passed, and yet the

past of yesterday seemed so far off! Gwynplaine had fallen into the

ambuscade of Better, who is the enemy of Good.

Unhappy is he of whom we say, how lucky he is! Adversity is more easily

resisted than prosperity. We rise more perfect from ill fortune than

from good. There is a Charybdis in poverty, and a Scylla in riches.

Those who remain erect under the thunderbolt are prostrated by the

flash. Thou who standest without shrinking on the verge of a precipice,

fear lest thou be carried up on the innumerable wings of mists and

dreams. The ascent which elevates will dwarf thee. An apotheosis has a

sinister power of degradation.

It is not easy to understand what is good luck. Chance is nothing but a

disguise. Nothing deceives so much as the face of fortune. Is she

Providence? Is she Fatality?

A brightness may not be a brightness, because light is truth, and a

gleam may be a deceit. You believe that it lights you; but no, it sets

you on fire.

At night, a candle made of mean tallow becomes a star if placed in an

opening in the darkness. The moth flies to it.

In what measure is the moth responsible?

The sight of the candle fascinates the moth as the eye of the serpent

fascinates the bird.

Is it possible that the bird and the moth should resist the attraction?

Is it possible that the leaf should resist the wind? Is it possible that

the stone should refuse obedience to the laws of gravitation?

These are material questions, which are moral questions as well.

After he had received the letter of the duchess, Gwynplaine had

recovered himself. The deep love in his nature had resisted it. But the

storm having wearied itself on one side of the horizon, burst out on the

other; for in destiny, as in nature, there are successive convulsions.

The first shock loosens, the second uproots.

Alas! how do the oaks fall?

Thus he who, when a child of ten, stood alone on the shore of Portland,

ready to give battle, who had looked steadfastly at all the combatants

whom he had to encounter, the blast which bore away the vessel in which

he had expected to embark, the gulf which had swallowed up the plank,

the yawning abyss, of which the menace was its retrocession, the earth

which refused him a shelter, the sky which refused him a star, solitude

without pity, obscurity without notice, ocean, sky, all the violence of

one infinite space, and all the mysterious enigmas of another; he who

had neither trembled nor fainted before the mighty hostility of the

unknown; he who, still so young, had held his own with night, as

Hercules of old had held his own with death; he who in the unequal

struggle had thrown down this defiance, that he, a child, adopted a

child, that he encumbered himself with a load, when tired and exhausted,

thus rendering himself an easier prey to the attacks on his weakness,

and, as it were, himself unmuzzling the shadowy monsters in ambush

around him; he who, a precocious warrior, had immediately, and from his

first steps out of the cradle, struggled breast to breast with destiny;

he, whose disproportion with strife had not discouraged from striving;

he who, perceiving in everything around him a frightful occultation of

the human race, had accepted that eclipse, and proudly continued his

journey; he who had known how to endure cold, thirst, hunger, valiantly;

he who, a pigmy in stature, had been a colossus in soul: this

Gwynplaine, who had conquered the great terror of the abyss under its

double form, Tempest and Misery, staggered under a breath--Vanity.

Thus, when she has exhausted distress, nakedness, storms, catastrophes,

agonies on an unflinching man, Fatality begins to smile, and her victim,

suddenly intoxicated, staggers.

The smile of Fatality! Can anything more terrible be imagined? It is the

last resource of the pitiless trier of souls in his proof of man. The

tiger, lurking in destiny, caresses man with a velvet paw. Sinister

preparation, hideous gentleness in the monster!

Every self-observer has detected within himself mental weakness

coincident with aggrandisement. A sudden growth disturbs the system, and

produces fever.

In Gwynplaine’s brain was the giddy whirlwind of a crowd of new

circumstances; all the light and shade of a metamorphosis; inexpressibly

strange confrontations; the shock of the past against the future. Two

Gwynplaines, himself doubled; behind, an infant in rags crawling through

night--wandering, shivering, hungry, provoking laughter; in front, a

brilliant nobleman--luxurious, proud, dazzling all London. He was

casting off one form, and amalgamating himself with the other. He was

casting the mountebank, and becoming the peer. Change of skin is

sometimes change of soul. Now and then the past seemed like a dream. It

was complex; bad and good. He thought of his father. It was a poignant

anguish never to have known his father. He tried to picture him to

himself. He thought of his brother, of whom he had just heard. Then he

had a family! He, Gwynplaine! He lost himself in fantastic dreams. He

saw visions of magnificence; unknown forms of solemn grandeur moved in

mist before him. He heard flourishes of trumpets.

“And then,” he said, “I shall be eloquent.”

He pictured to himself a splendid entrance into the House of Lords. He

should arrive full to the brim with new facts and ideas. What could he

not tell them? What subjects he had accumulated! What an advantage to be

in the midst of them, a man who had seen, touched, undergone, and

suffered; who could cry aloud to them, “I have been near to everything,

from which you are so far removed.” He would hurl reality in the face of

those patricians, crammed with illusions. They should tremble, for it

would be the truth. They would applaud, for it would be grand. He would

arise amongst those powerful men, more powerful than they. “I shall

appear as a torch-bearer, to show them truth; and as a sword-bearer, to

show them justice!” What a triumph!

And, building up these fantasies in his mind, clear and confused at the

same time, he had attacks of delirium,--sinking on the first seat he

came to; sometimes drowsy, sometimes starting up. He came and went,

looked at the ceiling, examined the coronets, studied vaguely the

hieroglyphics of the emblazonment, felt the velvet of the walls, moved

the chairs, turned over the parchments, read the names, spelt out the

titles, Buxton, Homble, Grundraith, Hunkerville, Clancharlie; compared

the wax, the impression, felt the twist of silk appended to the royal

privy seal, approached the window, listened to the splash of the

fountain, contemplated the statues, counted, with the patience of a

somnambulist, the columns of marble, and said,--

“It is real.”

Then he touched his satin clothes, and asked himself,--

“Is it I? Yes.”

He was torn by an inward tempest.

In this whirlwind, did he feel faintness and fatigue? Did he drink, eat,

sleep? If he did so, he was unconscious of the fact. In certain violent

situations instinct satisfies itself, according to its requirements,

unconsciously. Besides, his thoughts were less thoughts than mists. At

the moment that the black flame of an irruption disgorges itself from

depths full of boiling lava, has the crater any consciousness of the

flocks which crop the grass at the foot of the mountain?

The hours passed.

The dawn appeared and brought the day. A bright ray penetrated the

chamber, and at the same instant broke on the soul of Gwynplaine.

And Dea! said the light.

BOOK THE SIXTH.

_URSUS UNDER DIFFERENT ASPECTS._

CHAPTER I.

WHAT THE MISANTHROPE SAID.

After Ursus had seen Gwynplaine thrust within the gates of Southwark

Jail, he remained, haggard, in the corner from which he was watching.

For a long time his ears were haunted by the grinding of the bolts and

bars, which was like a howl of joy that one wretch more should be

enclosed within them.

He waited. What for? He watched. What for? Such inexorable doors, once

shut, do not re-open so soon. They are tongue-tied by their stagnation

in darkness, and move with difficulty, especially when they have to give

up a prisoner. Entrance is permitted. Exit is quite a different matter.

Ursus knew this. But waiting is a thing which we have not the power to

give up at our own will. We wait in our own despite. What we do

disengages an acquired force, which maintains its action when its object

has ceased, which keeps possession of us and holds us, and obliges us

for some time longer to continue that which has already lost its motive.

Hence the useless watch, the inert position that we have all held at

times, the loss of time which every thoughtful man gives mechanically to

that which has disappeared. None escapes this law. We become stubborn in

a sort of vague fury. We know not why we are in the place, but we remain

there. That which we have begun actively we continue passively, with an

exhausting tenacity from which we emerge overwhelmed. Ursus, though

differing from other men, was, as any other might have been, nailed to

his post by that species of conscious reverie into which we are plunged

by events all important to us, and in which we are impotent. He

scrutinized by turns those two black walls, now the high one, then the

low; sometimes the door near which the ladder to the gibbet stood, then

that surmounted by a death’s head. It was as if he were caught in a

vice, composed of a prison and a cemetery. This shunned and unpopular

street was so deserted that he was unobserved.

At length he left the arch under which he had taken shelter, a kind of

chance sentry-box, in which he had acted the watchman, and departed with

slow steps. The day was declining, for his guard had been long. From

time to time he turned his head and looked at the fearful wicket through

which Gwynplaine had disappeared. His eyes were glassy and dull. He

reached the end of the alley, entered another, then another, retracing

almost unconsciously the road which he had taken some hours before. At

intervals he turned, as if he could still see the door of the prison,

though he was no longer in the street in which the jail was situated.

Step by step he was approaching Tarrinzeau Field. The lanes in the

neighbourhood of the fair-ground were deserted pathways between enclosed

gardens. He walked along, his head bent down, by the hedges and ditches.

All at once he halted, and drawing himself up, exclaimed, “So much the

better!”

At the same time he struck his fist twice on his head and twice on his

thigh, thus proving himself to be a sensible fellow, who saw things in

their right light; and then he began to growl inwardly, yet now and then

raising his voice.

“It is all right! Oh, the scoundrel! the thief! the vagabond! the

worthless fellow! the seditious scamp! It is his speeches about the

government that have sent him there. He is a rebel. I was harbouring a

rebel. I am free of him, and lucky for me; he was compromising us.

Thrust into prison! Oh, so much the better! What excellent laws!

Ungrateful boy! I who brought him up! To give oneself so much trouble

for this! Why should he want to speak and to reason? He mixed himself up

in politics. The ass! As he handled pennies he babbled about the taxes,

about the poor, about the people, about what was no business of his. He

permitted himself to make reflections on pennies. He commented wickedly

and maliciously on the copper money of the kingdom. He insulted the

farthings of her Majesty. A farthing! Why, ’tis the same as the queen. A

sacred effigy! Devil take it! a sacred effigy! Have we a queen--yes or

no? Then respect her verdigris! Everything depends on the government;

one ought to know that. I have experience, I have. I know something.

They may say to me, ‘But you give up politics, then?’ Politics, my

friends! I care as much for them as for the rough hide of an ass. I

received, one day, a blow from a baronet’s cane. I said to myself, That

is enough: I understand politics. The people have but a farthing, they

give it; the queen takes it, the people thank her. Nothing can be more

natural. It is for the peers to arrange the rest; their lordships, the

lords spiritual and temporal. Oh! so Gwynplaine is locked up! So he is

in prison. That is just as it should be. It is equitable, excellent,

well-merited, and legitimate. It is his own fault. To criticize is

forbidden. Are you a lord, you idiot? The constable has seized him, the

justice of the quorum has carried him off, the sheriff has him in

custody. At this moment he is probably being examined by a serjeant of

the coif. They pluck out your crimes, those clever fellows! Imprisoned,

my wag! So much the worse for him, so much the better for me! Faith, I

am satisfied. I own frankly that fortune favours me. Of what folly was I

guilty when I picked up that little boy and girl! We were so quiet

before, Homo and I! What had they to do in my caravan, the little

blackguards? Didn’t I brood over them when they were young! Didn’t I

draw them along with my harness! Pretty foundlings, indeed; he as ugly

as sin, and she blind of both eyes! Where was the use of depriving

myself of everything for their sakes? The beggars grow up, forsooth, and

make love to each other. The flirtations of the deformed! It was to that

we had come. The toad and the mole; quite an idyl! That was what went on

in my household. All which was sure to end by going before the justice.

The toad talked politics! But now I am free of him. When the wapentake

came I was at first a fool; one always doubts one’s own good luck. I

believed that I did not see what I did see; that it was impossible, that

it was a nightmare, that a day-dream was playing me a trick. But no!

Nothing could be truer. It is all clear. Gwynplaine is really in

prison. It is a stroke of Providence. Praise be to it! He was the

monster who, with the row he made, drew attention to my establishment

and denounced my poor wolf. Be off, Gwynplaine; and, see, I am rid of

both! Two birds killed with one stone. Because Dea will die, now that

she can no longer see Gwynplaine. For she sees him, the idiot! She will

have no object in life. She will say, ‘What am I to do in the world?’

Good-bye! To the devil with both of them. I always hated the creatures!

Die, Dea! Oh, I am quite comfortable!”

CHAPTER II.

WHAT HE DID.

He returned to the Tadcaster Inn,

It struck half-past six. It was a little before twilight.

Master Nicless stood on his doorstep.

He had not succeeded, since the morning, in extinguishing the terror

which still showed on his scared face.

He perceived Ursus from afar.

“Well!” he cried.

“Well! what?”

“Is Gwynplaine coming back? It is full time. The public will soon be

coming. Shall we have the performance of ‘The Laughing Man’ this

evening?”

“I am the laughing man,” said Ursus.

And he looked at the tavern-keeper with a loud chuckle.

Then he went up to the first floor, opened the window next to the sign

of the inn, leant over towards the placard about Gwynplaine, the

laughing man, and the bill of “Chaos Vanquished;” unnailed the one, tore

down the other, put both under his arm, and descended.

Master Nicless followed him with his eyes.

“Why do you unhook that?”

Ursus burst into a second fit of laughter.

“Why do you laugh?” said the tavern-keeper.

“I am re-entering private life.”

Master Nicless understood, and gave an order to his lieutenant, the boy

Govicum, to announce to every one who should come that there would be no

performance that evening. He took from the door the box made out of a

cask, where they received the entrance money, and rolled it into a

corner of the lower sitting-room.

A moment after, Ursus entered the Green Box.

He put the two signs away in a corner, and entered what he called the

woman’s wing.

Dea was asleep.

She was on her bed, dressed as usual, excepting that the body of her

gown was loosened, as when she was taking her siesta.

Near her Vinos and Fibi were sitting--one on a stool, the other on the

ground--musing. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, they had not

dressed themselves in their goddesses’ gauze, which was a sign of deep

discouragement. They had remained in their drugget petticoats and their

dress of coarse cloth.

Ursus looked at Dea.

“She is rehearsing for a longer sleep,” murmured he.

Then, addressing Fibi and Vinos,--

“You both know all. The music is over. You may put your trumpets into

the drawer. You did well not to equip yourselves as deities. You look

ugly enough as you are, but you were quite right. Keep on your

petticoats. No performance to-night, nor to-morrow, nor the day after

to-morrow. No Gwynplaine. Gwynplaine is clean gone.”

Then he looked at Dea again.

“What a blow to her this will be! It will be like blowing out a candle.”

He inflated his cheeks.

“Puff! nothing more.”

Then, with a little dry laugh,--

“Losing Gwynplaine, she loses all. It would be just as if I were to lose

Homo. It will be worse. She will feel more lonely than any one else

could. The blind wade through more sorrow than we do.”

He looked out of the window at the end of the room.

“How the days lengthen! It is not dark at seven o’clock. Nevertheless we

will light up.”

He struck the steel and lighted the lamp which hung from the ceiling of

the Green Box.

Then he leaned over Dea.

“She will catch cold; you have unlaced her bodice too low. There is a

proverb,--

“‘Though April skies be bright,

Keep all your wrappers tight.’”

Seeing a pin shining on the floor, he picked it up and pinned up her

sleeve. Then he paced the Green Box, gesticulating.

“I am in full possession of my faculties. I am lucid, quite lucid. I

consider this occurrence quite proper, and I approve of what has

happened. When she awakes I will explain everything to her clearly. The

catastrophe will not be long in coming. No more Gwynplaine. Good-night,

Dea. How well all has been arranged! Gwynplaine in prison, Dea in the

cemetery, they will be _vis-à-vis_! A dance of death! Two destinies

going off the stage at once. Pack up the dresses. Fasten the valise. For

valise, read coffin. It was just what was best for them both. Dea

without eyes, Gwynplaine without a face. On high the Almighty will

restore sight to Dea and beauty to Gwynplaine. Death puts things to

rights. All will be well. Fibi, Vinos, hang up your tambourines on the

nail. Your talents for noise will go to rust, my beauties; no more

playing, no more trumpeting ‘Chaos Vanquished’ is vanquished. ‘The

Laughing Man’ is done for. ‘Taratantara’ is dead. Dea sleeps on. She

does well. If I were she I would never awake. Oh! she will soon fall

asleep again. A skylark like her takes very little killing. This comes

of meddling with politics. What a lesson! Governments are right.

Gwynplaine to the sheriff. Dea to the grave-digger. Parallel cases!

Instructive symmetry! I hope the tavern-keeper has barred the door. We

are going to die to-night quietly at home, between ourselves--not I, nor

Homo, but Dea. As for me, I shall continue to roll on in the caravan. I

belong to the meanderings of vagabond life. I shall dismiss these two

women. I shall not keep even one of them. I have a tendency to become an

old scoundrel. A maidservant in the house of a libertine is like a loaf

of bread on the shelf. I decline the temptation. It is not becoming at

my age. _Turpe senilis amor_. I will follow my way alone with Homo. How

astonished Homo will be! Where is Gwynplaine? Where is Dea? Old comrade,

here we are once more alone together. Plague take it! I’m delighted.

Their bucolics were an encumbrance. Oh! that scamp Gwynplaine, who is

never coming back. He has left us stuck here. I say ‘All right.’ And

now ’tis Dea’s turn. That won’t be long. I like things to be done with.

I would not snap my fingers to stop her dying--her dying, I tell you!

See, she awakes!”

Dea opened her eyelids; many blind persons shut them when they sleep.

Her sweet unwitting face wore all its usual radiance.

“She smiles,” whispered Ursus, “and I laugh. That is as it should be.”

Dea called,--

“Fibi! Vinos! It must be the time for the performance. I think I have

been asleep a long time. Come and dress me.”

Neither Fibi nor Vinos moved.

Meanwhile the ineffable blind look of Dea’s eyes met those of Ursus. He

started.

“Well!” he cried; “what are you about? Vinos! Fibi! Do you not hear your

mistress? Are you deaf? Quick! the play is going to begin.”

The two women looked at Ursus in stupefaction.

Ursus shouted,--

“Do you not hear the audience coming in?--Fibi, dress Dea.--Vinos, take

your tambourine.”

Fibi was obedient; Vinos, passive. Together, they personified

submission. Their master, Ursus, had always been to them an enigma.

Never to be understood is a reason for being always obeyed. They simply

thought he had gone mad, and did as they were told. Fibi took down the

costume, and Vinos the tambourine.

Fibi began to dress Dea. Ursus let down the door-curtain of the women’s

room, and from behind the curtain continued,--

“Look there, Gwynplaine! the court is already more than half full of

people. They are in heaps in the passages. What a crowd! And you say

that Fibi and Vinos look as if they did not see them. How stupid the

gipsies are! What fools they are in Egypt! Don’t lift the curtain from

the door. Be decent. Dea is dressing.”

He paused, and suddenly they heard an exclamation,--

“How beautiful Dea is!”

It was the voice of Gwynplaine.

Fibi and Vinos started, and turned round. It was the voice of

Gwynplaine, but in the mouth of Ursus.

Ursus, by a sign which he made through the door ajar, forbade the

expression of any astonishment.

Then, again taking the voice of Gwynplaine,--

“Angel!”

Then he replied in his own voice,--

“Dea an angel! You are a fool, Gwynplaine. No mammifer can fly except

the bats.”

And he added,--

“Look here, Gwynplaine! Let Homo loose; that will be more to the

purpose.”

And he descended the ladder of the Green Box very quickly, with the

agile spring of Gwynplaine, imitating his step so that Dea could hear

it.

In the court he addressed the boy, whom the occurrences of the day had

made idle and inquisitive.

“Spread out both your hands,” said he, in a loud voice.

And he poured a handful of pence into them.

Govicum was grateful for his munificence.

Ursus whispered in his ear,--

“Boy, go into the yard; jump, dance, knock, bawl, whistle, coo, neigh,

applaud, stamp your feet, burst out laughing, break something.”

Master Nicless, saddened and humiliated at seeing the folks who had come

to see “The Laughing Man” turned back and crowding towards other

caravans, had shut the door of the inn. He had even given up the idea of

selling any beer or spirits that evening, that he might have to answer

no awkward questions; and, quite overcome by the sudden close of the

performance, was looking, with his candle in his hand, into the court

from the balcony above.

Ursus, taking the precaution of putting his voice between parentheses

fashioned by adjusting the palms of his hands to his mouth, cried out to

him,--

“Sir! do as your boy is doing--yelp, bark, howl.”

He re-ascended the steps of the Green Box, and said to the wolf,--

“_Talk_ as much as you can.”

Then, raising his voice,--

“What a crowd there is! We shall have a crammed performance.”

In the meantime Vinos played the tambourine. Ursus went on,--

“Dea is dressed. Now we can begin. I am sorry they have admitted so

many spectators. How thickly packed they are!--Look, Gwynplaine, what a

mad mob it is! I will bet that to-day we shall take more money than we

have ever done yet.--Come, gipsies, play up, both of you. Come

here.--Fibi, take your clarion. Good.--Vinos, drum on your tambourine.

Fling it up and catch it again.--Fibi, put yourself into the attitude of

Fame.--Young ladies, you have too much on. Take off those jackets.

Replace stuff by gauze. The public like to see the female form exposed.

Let the moralists thunder. A little indecency. Devil take it! what of

that? Look voluptuous, and rush into wild melodies. Snort, blow,

whistle, flourish, play the tambourine.--What a number of people, my

poor Gwynplaine!”

He interrupted himself.

“Gwynplaine, help me. Let down the platform.” He spread out his

pocket-handkerchief. “But first let me roar in my rag,” and he blew his

nose violently as a ventriloquist ought. Having returned his

handkerchief to his pocket, he drew the pegs out of the pulleys, which

creaked as usual as the platform was let down.

“Gwynplaine, do not draw the curtain until the performance begins. We

are not alone.--You two come on in front. Music, ladies! turn, turn,

turn.--A pretty audience we have! the dregs of the people. Good

heavens!”

The two gipsies, stupidly obedient, placed themselves in their usual

corners of the platform. Then Ursus became wonderful. It was no longer a

man, but a crowd. Obliged to make abundance out of emptiness, he called

to aid his prodigious powers of ventriloquism. The whole orchestra of

human and animal voices which was within him he called into tumult at

once.

He was legion. Any one with his eyes closed would have imagined that he

was in a public place on some day of rejoicing, or in some sudden

popular riot. A whirlwind of clamour proceeded from Ursus: he sang, he

shouted, he talked, he coughed, he spat, he sneezed, took snuff, talked

and responded, put questions and gave answers, all at once. The

half-uttered syllables ran one into another. In the court, untenanted by

a single spectator, were heard men, women, and children. It was a clear

confusion of tumult. Strange laughter wound, vapour-like, through the

noise, the chirping of birds, the swearing of cats, the wailings of

children at the breast. The indistinct tones of drunken men were to be

heard, and the growls of dogs under the feet of people who stamped on

them. The cries came from far and near, from top to bottom, from the

upper boxes to the pit. The whole was an uproar, the detail was a cry.

Ursus clapped his hands, stamped his feet, threw his voice to the end of

the court, and then made it come from underground. It was both stormy

and familiar. It passed from a murmur to a noise, from a noise to a

tumult, from a tumult to a tempest. He was himself, any, every one else.

Alone, and polyglot. As there are optical illusions, there are also

auricular illusions. That which Proteus did to sight Ursus did to

hearing. Nothing could be more marvellous than his facsimile of

multitude. From time to time he opened the door of the women’s apartment

and looked at Dea. Dea was listening. On his part the boy exerted

himself to the utmost. Vinos and Fibi trumpeted conscientiously, and

took turns with the tambourine. Master Nicless, the only spectator,

quietly made himself the same explanation as they did--that Ursus was

gone mad; which was, for that matter, but another sad item added to his

misery. The good tavern-keeper growled out, “What insanity!” And he was

serious as a man might well be who has the fear of the law before him.

Govicum, delighted at being able to help in making a noise, exerted

himself almost as much as Ursus. It amused him, and, moreover, it earned

him pence.

Homo was pensive.

In the midst of the tumult Ursus now and then uttered such words as

these:--“Just as usual, Gwynplaine. There is a cabal against us. Our

rivals are undermining our success. Tumult is the seasoning of triumph.

Besides, there are too many people. They are uncomfortable. The angles

of their neighbours’ elbows do not dispose them to good-nature. I hope

the benches will not give way. We shall be the victims of an incensed

population. Oh, if our friend Tom-Jim-Jack were only here! but he never

comes now. Look at those heads rising one above the other. Those who are

forced to stand don’t look very well pleased, though the great Galen

pronounced it to be strengthening. We will shorten the entertainment; as

only ‘Chaos Vanquished’ was announced in the playbill, we will not play

‘Ursus Rursus.’ There will be something gained in that. What an uproar!

O blind turbulence of the masses. They will do us some damage. However,

they can’t go on like this. We should not be able to play. No one can

catch a word of the piece. I am going to address them. Gwynplaine, draw

the curtain a little aside.--Gentlemen.” Here Ursus addressed himself

with a shrill and feeble voice,--

“Down with that old fool!”

Then he answered in his own voice,--

“It seems that the mob insult me. Cicero is right: _plebs fex urbis_.

Never mind; we will admonish the mob, though I shall have a great deal

of trouble to make myself heard. I will speak, notwithstanding. Man, do

your duty. Gwynplaine, look at that scold grinding her teeth down

there.”

Ursus made a pause, in which he placed a gnashing of his teeth. Homo,

provoked, added a second, and Govicum a third.

Ursus went on,--

“The women are worse than the men. The moment is unpropitious, but it

doesn’t matter! Let us try the power of a speech; an eloquent speech is

never out of place. Listen, Gwynplaine, to my attractive exordium.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a bear. I take off my head to address you. I

humbly appeal to you for silence.” Ursus, lending a cry to the crowd,

said, “Grumphll!”

Then he continued,--

“I respect my audience. Grumphll is an epiphonema as good as any other

welcome. You growlers. That you are all of the dregs of the people, I do

not doubt. That in no way diminishes my esteem for you. A

well-considered esteem. I have a profound respect for the bullies who

honour me with their custom. There are deformed folks amongst you. They

give me no offence. The lame and the humpbacked are works of nature. The

camel is gibbous. The bison’s back is humped. The badger’s left legs are

shorter than the right, That fact is decided by Aristotle, in his

treatise on the walking of animals. There are those amongst you who have

but two shirts--one on his back, and the other at the pawnbroker’s. I

know that to be true. Albuquerque pawned his moustache, and St. Denis

his glory. The Jews advanced money on the glory. Great examples. To have

debts is to have something. I revere your beggardom.”

Ursus cut short his speech, interrupting it in a deep bass voice by the

shout,--

“Triple ass!”

And he answered in his politest accent,--

“I admit it. I am a learned man. I do my best to apologize for it. I

scientifically despise science. Ignorance is a reality on which we feed;

science is a reality on which we starve. In general one is obliged to

choose between two things--to be learned and grow thin, or to browse and

be an ass. O gentlemen, browse! Science is not worth a mouthful of

anything nice. I had rather eat a sirloin of beef than know what they

call the psoas muscle. I have but one merit--a dry eye. Such as you see

me, I have never wept. It must be owned that I have never been

satisfied--never satisfied--not even with myself. I despise myself; but

I submit this to the members of the opposition here present--if Ursus is

only a learned man, Gwynplaine is an artist.”

He groaned again,--

“Grumphll!”

And resumed,--

“Grumphll again! it is an objection. All the same, I pass it over. Near

Gwynplaine, gentlemen and ladies, is another artist, a valued and

distinguished personage who accompanies us--his lordship Homo, formerly

a wild dog, now a civilized wolf, and a faithful subject of her

Majesty’s. Homo is a mine of deep and superior talent. Be attentive and

watch. You are going to set Homo play as well as Gwynplaine, and you

must do honour to art. That is an attribute of great nations. Are you

men of the woods? I admit the fact. In that case, _sylvæ sunt consule

digna_. Two artists are well worth one consul. All right! Some one has

flung a cabbage stalk at me, but did not hit me. That will not stop my

speaking; on the contrary, a danger evaded makes folks garrulous.

_Garrula pericula_, says Juvenal. My hearers! there are amongst you

drunken men and drunken women. Very well. The men are unwholesome. The

women are hideous. You have all sorts of excellent reasons for stowing

yourselves away here on the benches of the pothouse--want of work,

idleness, the spare time between two robberies, porter, ale, stout,

malt, brandy, gin, and the attraction of one sex for the other. What

could be better? A wit prone to irony would find this a fair field. But

I abstain. ’Tis luxury; so be it, but even an orgy should be kept

within bounds. You are gay, but noisy. You imitate successfully the

cries of beasts; but what would you say if, when you were making love to

a lady, I passed my time in barking at you? It would disturb you, and so

it disturbs us. I order you to hold your tongues. Art is as respectable

as debauch. I speak to you civilly.”

He apostrophized himself,--

“May the fever strangle you, with your eyebrows like the beard of rye.”

And he replied,--

“Honourable gentlemen, let the rye alone. It is impious to insult the

vegetables, by likening them either to human creatures or animals.

Besides, the fever does not strangle. ’Tis a false metaphor. For pity’s

sake, keep silence. Allow me to tell you that you are slightly wanting

in the repose which characterizes the true English gentleman. I see that

some amongst you, who have shoes out of which their toes are peeping,

take advantage of the circumstance to rest their feet on the shoulders

of those who are in front of them, causing the ladies to remark that the

soles of shoes divide always at the part at which is the head of the

metatarsal bones. Show more of your hands and less of your feet. I

perceive scamps who plunge their ingenious fists into the pockets of

their foolish neighbours. Dear pickpockets, have a little modesty. Fight

those next to you if you like; do not plunder them. You will vex them

less by blackening an eye, than by lightening their purses of a penny.

Break their noses if you like. The shopkeeper thinks more of his money

than of his beauty. Barring this, accept my sympathies, for I am not

pedantic enough to blame thieves. Evil exists. Every one endures it,

every one inflicts it. No one is exempt from the vermin of his sins.

That’s what I keep saying. Have we not all our itch? I myself have made

mistakes. _Plaudite, cives_.”

Ursus uttered a long groan, which he overpowered by these concluding

words,--

“My lords and gentlemen, I see that my address has unluckily displeased

you. I take leave of your hisses for a moment. I shall put on my head,

and the performance is going to begin.”

He dropt his oratorical tone, and resumed his usual voice.

“Close the curtains. Let me breathe. I have spoken like honey. I have

spoken well. My words were like velvet; but they were useless. I called

them my lords and gentlemen. What do you think of all this scum,

Gwynplaine? How well may we estimate the ills which England has suffered

for the last forty years through the ill-temper of these irritable and

malicious spirits! The ancient Britons were warlike; these are

melancholy and learned. They glory in despising the laws and contemning

royal authority. I have done all that human eloquence can do. I have

been prodigal of metonymics, as gracious as the blooming cheek of youth.

Were they softened by them? I doubt it. What can affect a people who eat

so extraordinarily, who stupefy themselves by tobacco so completely that

their literary men often write their works with a pipe in their mouths?

Never mind. Let us begin the play.”

The rings of the curtain were heard being drawn over the rod. The

tambourines of the gipsies were still. Ursus took down his instrument,

executed his prelude, and said in a low tone: “Alas, Gwynplaine, how

mysterious it is!” then he flung himself down with the wolf.

When he had taken down his instrument, he had also taken from the nail a

rough wig which he had, and which he had thrown on the stage in a corner

within his reach. The performance of “Chaos Vanquished” took place as

usual, minus only the effect of the blue light and the brilliancy of the

fairies. The wolf played his best. At the proper moment Dea made her

appearance, and, in her voice so tremulous and heavenly, invoked

Gwynplaine. She extended her arms, feeling for that head.

Ursus rushed at the wig, ruffled it, put it on, advanced softly, and

holding his breath, his head bristled thus under the hand of Dea.

Then calling all his art to his aid, and copying Gwynplaine’s voice, he

sang with ineffable love the response of the monster to the call of the

spirit. The imitation was so perfect that again the gipsies looked for

Gwynplaine, frightened at hearing without seeing him.

Govicum, filled with astonishment, stamped, applauded, clapped his

hands, producing an Olympian tumult, and himself laughed as if he had

been a chorus of gods. This boy, it must be confessed, developed a rare

talent for acting an audience.

Fibi and Vinos, being automatons of which Ursus pulled the strings,

rattled their instruments, composed of copper and ass’s skin--the usual

sign of the performance being over and of the departure of the people.

Ursus arose, covered with perspiration. He said, in a low voice, to

Homo, “You see it was necessary to gain time. I think we have succeeded.

I have not acquitted myself badly--I, who have as much reason as any one

to go distracted. Gwynplaine may perhaps return to-morrow. It is useless

to kill Dea directly. I can explain matters to you.”

He took off his wig and wiped his forehead.

“I am a ventriloquist of genius,” murmured he. “What talent I displayed!

I have equalled Brabant, the engastrimist of Francis I. of France. Dea

is convinced that Gwynplaine is here.”

“Ursus,” said Dea, “where is Gwynplaine?”

Ursus started and turned round. Dea was still standing at the back of

the stage, alone under the lamp which hung from the ceiling. She was

pale, with the pallor of a ghost.

She added, with an ineffable expression of despair,--

“I know. He has left us. He is gone. I always knew that he had wings.”

And raising her sightless eyes on high, she added,--

“When shall I follow?”

CHAPTER III.

COMPLICATIONS.

Ursus was stunned.

He had not sustained the illusion.

Was it the fault of ventriloquism? Certainly not. He had succeeded in

deceiving Fibi and Vinos, who had eyes, although he had not deceived

Dea, who was blind. It was because Fibi and Vinos saw with their eyes,

while Dea saw with her heart. He could not utter a word. He thought to

himself, _Bos in lingûa_. The troubled man has an ox on his tongue.

In his complex emotions, humiliation was the first which dawned on him.

Ursus, driven out of his last resource, pondered.

“I lavish my onomatopies in vain.” Then, like every dreamer, he reviled

himself. “What a frightful failure! I wore myself out in a pure loss of

imitative harmony. But what is to be done next?”

He looked at Dea. She was silent, and grew paler every moment, as she

stood perfectly motionless. Her sightless eyes remained fixed in depths

of thought.

Fortunately, something happened. Ursus saw Master Nicless in the yard,

with a candle in his hand, beckoning to him.

Master Nicless had not assisted at the end of the phantom comedy played

by Ursus. Some one had happened to knock at the door of the inn. Master

Nicless had gone to open it. There had been two knocks, and twice Master

Nicless had disappeared. Ursus, absorbed by his hundred-voiced

monologue, had not observed his absence.

On the mute call of Master Nicless, Ursus descended.

He approached the tavern-keeper. Ursus put his finger on his lips.

Master Nicless put his finger on his lips.

The two looked at each other thus.

Each seemed to say to the other, “We will talk, but we will hold our

tongues.”

The tavern-keeper silently opened the door of the lower room of the

tavern. Master Nicless entered. Ursus entered. There was no one there

except these two. On the side looking on the street both doors and

window-shutters were closed.

The tavern-keeper pushed the door behind him, and shut it in the face of

the inquisitive Govicum.

Master Nicless placed the candle on the table.

A low whispering dialogue began.

“Master Ursus?”

“Master Nicless?”

“I understand at last.”

“Nonsense!”

“You wished the poor blind girl to think that all going on as usual.”

“There is no law against my being a ventriloquist.”

“You are a clever fellow.”

“No.”

“It is wonderful how you manage all that you wish to do.”

“I tell you it is not.”

“Now, I have something to tell you.”

“Is it about politics?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because in that case I could not listen to you.”

“Look here: whilst you were playing actors and audience by yourself,

some one knocked at the door of the tavern.”

“Some one knocked at the door?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Nor I, either.”

“And then?”

“And then I opened it.”

“Who was it that knocked?”

“Some one who spoke to me.”

“What did he say?”

“I listened to him.”

“What did you answer?”

“Nothing. I came back to see you play.”

“And--?”

“Some one knocked a second time.”

“Who? the same person?”

“No, another.”

“Some one else to speak to you?”

“Some one who said nothing.”

“I like that better.”

“I do not.”

“Explain yourself, Master Nicless.”

“Guess who called the first time.”

“I have no leisure to be an Oedipus.”

“It was the proprietor of the circus.”

“Over the way?”

“Over the way.”

“Whence comes all that fearful noise. Well?”

“Well, Master Ursus, he makes you a proposal.”

“A proposal?”

“A proposal.”

“Why?”

“Because--”

“You have an advantage over me, Master Nicless. Just now you solved my

enigma, and now I cannot understand yours.”

“The proprietor of the circus commissioned me to tell you that he had

seen the _cortège_ of police pass this morning, and that he, the

proprietor of the circus, wishing to prove that he is your friend,

offers to buy of you, for fifty pounds, ready money, your caravan, the

Green Box, your two horses, your trumpets, with the women that blow

them, your play, with the blind girl who sings in it, your wolf, and

yourself.”

Ursus smiled a haughty smile.

“Innkeeper, tell the proprietor of the circus that Gwynplaine is coming

back.”

The innkeeper took something from a chair in the darkness, and turning

towards Ursus with both arms raised, dangled from one hand a cloak, and

from the other a leather esclavine, a felt hat, and a jacket.

And Master Nicless said, “The man who knocked the second time was

connected with the police; he came in and left without saying a word,

and brought these things.”

Ursus recognized the esclavine, the jacket, the hat, and the cloak of

Gwynplaine.

CHAPTER IV.

MOENIBUS SURDIS CAMPANA MUTA.

Ursus smoothed the felt of the hat, touched the cloth of the cloak, the

serge of the coat, the leather of the esclavine, and no longer able to

doubt whose garments they were, with a gesture at once brief and

imperative, and without saying a word, pointed to the door of the inn.

Master Nicless opened it.

Ursus rushed out of the tavern.

Master Nicless looked after him, and saw Ursus run, as fast as his old

legs would allow, in the direction taken that morning by the wapentake

who carried off Gwynplaine.

A quarter of an hour afterwards, Ursus, out of breath, reached the

little street in which stood the back wicket of the Southwark jail,

which he had already watched so many hours. This alley was lonely enough

at all hours; but if dreary during the day, it was portentous in the

night. No one ventured through it after a certain hour. It seemed as

though people feared that the walls should close in, and that if the

prison or the cemetery took a fancy to embrace, they should be crushed

in their clasp. Such are the effects of darkness. The pollard willows of

the Ruelle Vauvert in Paris were thus ill-famed. It was said that

during the night the stumps of those trees changed into great hands, and

caught hold of the passers-by.

By instinct the Southwark folks shunned, as we have already mentioned,

this alley between a prison and a churchyard. Formerly it had been

barricaded during the night by an iron chain. Very uselessly; because

the strongest chain which guarded the street was the terror it inspired.

Ursus entered it resolutely.

What intention possessed him? None.

He came into the alley to seek intelligence.

Was he going to knock at the gate of the jail? Certainly not. Such an

expedient, at once fearful and vain, had no place in his brain. To

attempt to introduce himself to demand an explanation. What folly!

Prisons do not open to those who wish to enter, any more than to those

who desire to get out. Their hinges never turn except by law. Ursus knew

this. Why, then, had he come there? To see. To see what? Nothing. Who

can tell? Even to be opposite the gate through which Gwynplaine had

disappeared was something.

Sometimes the blackest and most rugged of walls whispers, and some light

escapes through a cranny. A vague glimmering is now and then to be

perceived through solid and sombre piles of building. Even to examine

the envelope of a fact may be to some purpose. The instinct of us all is

to leave between the fact which interests us and ourselves but the

thinnest possible cover. Therefore it was that Ursus returned to the

alley in which the lower entrance to the prison was situated.

Just as he entered it he heard one stroke of the clock, then a second.

“Hold,” thought he; “can it be midnight already?”

Mechanically he set himself to count.

“Three, four, five.”

He mused.

“At what long intervals this clock strikes! how slowly! Six; seven!”

Then he remarked,--

“What a melancholy sound! Eight, nine! Ah! nothing can be more natural;

it’s dull work for a clock to live in a prison. Ten! Besides, there is

the cemetery. This clock sounds the hour to the living, and eternity to

the dead. Eleven! Alas! to strike the hour to him who is not free is

also to chronicle an eternity. Twelve!”

He paused.

“Yes, it is midnight.”

The clock struck a thirteenth stroke.

Ursus shuddered.

“Thirteen!”

Then followed a fourteenth; then a fifteenth.

“What can this mean?”

The strokes continued at long intervals. Ursus listened.

“It is not the striking of a clock; it is the bell Muta. No wonder I

said, ‘How long it takes to strike midnight!’ This clock does not

strike; it tolls. What fearful thing is about to take place?”

Formerly all prisons and all monasteries had a bell called Muta,

reserved for melancholy occasions. La Muta (the mute) was a bell which

struck very low, as if doing its best not to be heard.

Ursus had reached the corner which he had found so convenient for his

watch, and whence he had been able, during a great part of the day, to

keep his eye on the prison.

The strokes followed each other at lugubrious intervals.

A knell makes an ugly punctuation in space. It breaks the preoccupation

of the mind into funereal paragraphs. A knell, like a man’s

death-rattle, notifies an agony. If in the houses about the

neighbourhood where a knell is tolled there are reveries straying in

doubt, its sound cuts them into rigid fragments. A vague reverie is a

sort of refuge. Some indefinable diffuseness in anguish allows now and

then a ray of hope to pierce through it. A knell is precise and

desolating. It concentrates this diffusion of thought, and precipitates

the vapours in which anxiety seeks to remain in suspense. A knell speaks

to each one in the sense of his own grief or of his own fear. Tragic

bell! it concerns you. It is a warning to you.

There is nothing so dreary as a monologue on which its cadence falls.

The even returns of sound seem to show a purpose.

What is it that this hammer, the bell, forges on the anvil of thought?

Ursus counted, vaguely and without motive, the tolling of the knell.

Feeling that his thoughts were sliding from him, he made an effort not

to let them slip into conjecture. Conjecture is an inclined plane, on

which we slip too far to be to our own advantage. Still, what was the

meaning of the bell?

He looked through the darkness in the direction in which he knew the

gate of the prison to be.

Suddenly, in that very spot which looked like a dark hole, a redness

showed. The redness grew larger, and became a light.

There was no uncertainty about it. It soon took a form and angles. The

gate of the jail had just turned on its hinges. The glow painted the

arch and the jambs of the door. It was a yawning rather than an opening.

A prison does not open; it yawns--perhaps from ennui. Through the gate

passed a man with a torch in his hand.

The bell rang on. Ursus felt his attention fascinated by two objects. He

watched--his ear the knell, his eye the torch. Behind the first man the

gate, which had been ajar, enlarged the opening suddenly, and allowed

egress to two other men; then to a fourth. This fourth was the

wapentake, clearly visible in the light of the torch. In his grasp was

his iron staff.

Following the wapentake, there filed and opened out below the gateway in

order, two by two, with the rigidity of a series of walking posts, ranks

of silent men.

This nocturnal procession stepped through the wicket in file, like a

procession of penitents, without any solution of continuity, with a

funereal care to make no noise--gravely, almost gently. A serpent issues

from its hole with similar precautions.

The torch threw out their profiles and attitudes into relief. Fierce

looks, sullen attitudes.

Ursus recognized the faces of the police who had that morning carried

off Gwynplaine.

There was no doubt about it. They were the same. They were reappearing.

Of course, Gwynplaine would also reappear. They had led him to that

place; they would bring him back.

It was all quite clear.

Ursus strained his eyes to the utmost. Would they set Gwynplaine at

liberty?

The files of police flowed from the low arch very slowly, and, as it

were, drop by drop. The toll of the bell was uninterrupted, and seemed

to mark their steps. On leaving the prison, the procession turned their

backs on Ursus, went to the right, into the bend of the street opposite

to that in which he was posted.

A second torch shone under the gateway, announcing the end of the

procession.

Ursus was now about to see what they were bringing with them. The

prisoner--the man.

Ursus was soon, he thought, to see Gwynplaine.

That which they carried appeared.

It was a bier.

Four men carried a bier, covered with black cloth.

Behind them came a man, with a shovel on his shoulder.

A third lighted torch, held by a man reading a book, probably the

chaplain, closed the procession.

The bier followed the ranks of the police, who had turned to the right.

Just at that moment the head of the procession stopped.

Ursus heard the grating of a key.

Opposite the prison, in the low wall which ran along the other side of

the street, another opening was illuminated by a torch passing beneath

it.

This gate, over which a death’s-head was placed, was that of the

cemetery.

The wapentake passed through it, then the men, then the second torch.

The procession decreased therein, like a reptile entering his retreat.

The files of police penetrated into that other darkness which was beyond

the gate; then the bier; then the man with the spade; then the chaplain

with his torch and his book, and the gate closed.

There was nothing left but a haze of light above the wall.

A muttering was heard; then some dull sounds. Doubtless the chaplain and

the gravedigger--the one throwing on the coffin some verses of

Scripture, the other some clods of earth.

The muttering ceased; the heavy sounds ceased. A movement was made. The

torches shone. The wapentake reappeared, holding high his weapon, under

the reopened gate of the cemetery; then the chaplain with his book, and

the gravedigger with his spade. The _cortège_ reappeared without the

coffin.

The files of men crossed over in the same order, with the same

taciturnity, and in the opposite direction. The gate of the cemetery

closed. That of the prison opened. Its sepulchral architecture stood out

against the light. The obscurity of the passage became vaguely visible.

The solid and deep night of the jail was revealed to sight; then the

whole vision disappeared in the depths of shadow.

The knell ceased. All was locked in silence. A sinister incarceration of

shadows.

A vanished vision; nothing more.

A passage of spectres, which had disappeared.

The logical arrangement of surmises builds up something which at least

resembles evidence. To the arrest of Gwynplaine, to the secret mode of

his capture, to the return of his garments by the police officer, to the

death bell of the prison to which he had been conducted, was now added,

or rather adjusted--portentous circumstance--a coffin carried to the

grave.

“He is dead!” cried Ursus.

He sank down upon a stone.

“Dead! They have killed him! Gwynplaine! My child! My son!”

And he burst into passionate sobs.

CHAPTER V.

STATE POLICY DEALS WITH LITTLE MATTERS AS WELL AS WITH GREAT.

Ursus, alas! had boasted that he had never wept. His reservoir of tears

was full. Such plentitude as is accumulated drop on drop, sorrow on

sorrow, through a long existence, is not to be poured out in a moment.

Ursus wept alone.

The first tear is a letting out of waters. He wept for Gwynplaine, for

Dea, for himself, Ursus, for Homo. He wept like a child. He wept like an

old man. He wept for everything at which he had ever laughed. He paid

off arrears. Man is never nonsuited when he pleads his right to tears.

The corpse they had just buried was Hardquanonne’s; but Ursus could not

know that.

The hours crept on.

Day began to break. The pale clothing of the morning was spread out,

dimly creased with shadow, over the bowling-green. The dawn lighted up

the front of the Tadcaster Inn. Master Nicless had not gone to bed,

because sometimes the same occurrence produces sleeplessness in many.

Troubles radiate in every direction. Throw a stone in the water, and

count the splashes.

Master Nicless felt himself impeached. It is very disagreeable that such

things should happen in one’s house. Master Nicless, uneasy, and

foreseeing misfortunes, meditated. He regretted having received such

people into his house. Had he but known that they would end by getting

him into mischief! But the question was how to get rid of them? He had

given Ursus a lease. What a blessing if he could free himself from it!

How should he set to work to drive them out?

Suddenly the door of the inn resounded with one of those tumultuous

knocks which in England announces “Somebody.” The gamut of knocking

corresponds with the ladder of hierarchy.

It was not quite the knock of a lord; but it was the knock of a justice.

The trembling innkeeper half opened his window. There was, indeed, the

magistrate. Master Nicless perceived at the door a body of police, from

the head of which two men detached themselves, one of whom was the

justice of the quorum.

Master Nicless had seen the justice of the quorum that morning, and

recognized him.

He did not know the other, who was a fat gentleman, with a

waxen-coloured face, a fashionable wig, and a travelling cloak. Nicless

was much afraid of the first of these persons, the justice of the

quorum. Had he been of the court, he would have feared the other most,

because it was Barkilphedro.

One of the subordinates knocked at the door again violently.

The innkeeper, with great drops of perspiration on his brow, from

anxiety, opened it.

The justice of the quorum, in the tone of a man who is employed in

matters of police, and who is well acquainted with various shades of

vagrancy, raised his voice, and asked, severely, for

“Master Ursus!”

The host, cap in hand, replied,--

“Your honour; he lives here.”

“I know it,” said the justice.

“No doubt, your honour.”

“Tell him to come down.”

“Your honour, he is not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I do not know.”

“How is that?”

“He has not come in.”

“Then he must have gone out very early?”

“No; but he went out very late.”

“What vagabonds!” replied the justice.

“Your honour,” said Master Nicless, softly, “here he comes.”

Ursus, indeed, had just come in sight, round a turn of the wall. He was

returning to the inn. He had passed nearly the whole night between the

jail, where at midday he had seen Gwynplaine, and the cemetery, where at

midnight he had heard the grave filled up. He was pallid with two

pallors--that of sorrow and of twilight.

Dawn, which is light in a chrysalis state, leaves even those forms which

are in movement in the uncertainty of night. Ursus, wan and indistinct,

walked slowly, like a man in a dream. In the wild distraction produced

by agony of mind, he had left the inn with his head bare. He had not

even found out that he had no hat on. His spare, gray locks fluttered in

the wind. His open eyes appeared sightless. Often when awake we are

asleep, and as often when asleep we are awake.

Ursus looked like a lunatic.

“Master Ursus,” cried the innkeeper, “come; their honours desire to

speak to you.”

Master Nicless, in his endeavour to soften matters down, let slip,

although he would gladly have omitted, this plural, “their

honours”--respectful to the group, but mortifying, perhaps, to the

chief, confounded therein, to some degree, with his subordinates.

Ursus started like a man falling off a bed, on which he was sound

asleep.

“What is the matter?” said he.

He saw the police, and at the head of the police the justice. A fresh

and rude shock.

But a short time ago, the wapentake, now the justice of the quorum. He

seemed to have been cast from one to the other, as ships by some reefs

of which we have read in old stories.

The justice of the quorum made him a sign to enter the tavern. Ursus

obeyed.

Govicum, who had just got up, and who was sweeping the room, stopped his

work, got into a corner behind the tables, put down his broom, and held

his breath. He plunged his fingers into his hair, and scratched his

head, a symptom which indicated attention to what was about to occur.

The justice of the quorum sat down on a form, before a table.

Barkilphedro took a chair. Ursus and Master Nicless remained standing.

The police officers, left outside, grouped themselves in front of the

closed door.

The justice of the quorum fixed his eye, full of the law, upon Ursus. He

said,--

“You have a wolf.”

Ursus answered,--

“Not exactly.”

“You have a wolf,” continued the justice, emphasizing “wolf” with a

decided accent.

Ursus answered,--

“You see--”

And he was silent.

“A misdemeanour!” replied the justice.

Ursus hazarded an excuse,--

“He is my servant.”

The justice placed his hand flat on the table, with his fingers spread

out, which is a very fine gesture of authority.

“Merry-andrew! to-morrow, by this hour, you and your wolf must have left

England. If not, the wolf will be seized, carried to the register

office, and killed.”

Ursus thought, “More murder!” but he breathed not a syllable, and was

satisfied with trembling in every limb.

“You hear?” said the justice.

Ursus nodded.

The justice persisted,--

“Killed.”

There was silence.

“Strangled, or drowned.”

The justice of the quorum watched Ursus.

“And yourself in prison.”

Ursus murmured,--

“Your worship!”

“Be off before to-morrow morning; if not, such is the order.”

“Your worship!”

“What?”

“Must we leave England, he and I?”

“Yes.”

“To-day?”

“To-day.”

“What is to be done?”

Master Nicless was happy. The magistrate, whom he had feared, had come

to his aid. The police had acted as auxiliary to him, Nicless. They had

delivered him from “such people.” The means he had sought were brought

to him. Ursus, whom he wanted to get rid of, was being driven away by

the police, a superior authority. Nothing to object to. He was

delighted. He interrupted,--

“Your honour, that man--”

He pointed to Ursus with his finger.

“That man wants to know how he is to leave England to-day. Nothing can

be easier. There are night and day at anchor on the Thames, both on this

and on the other side of London Bridge, vessels that sail to the

Continent. They go from England to Denmark, to Holland, to Spain; not to

France, on account of the war, but everywhere else. To-night several

ships will sail, about one o’clock in the morning, which is the hour of

high tide, and, amongst others, the _Vograat_ of Rotterdam.”

The justice of the quorum made a movement of his shoulder towards Ursus.

“Be it so. Leave by the first ship--by the _Vograat_.”

“Your worship,” said Ursus.

“Well?”

“Your worship, if I had, as formerly, only my little box on wheels, it

might be done. A boat would contain that; but--”

“But what?”

“But now I have got the Green Box, which is a great caravan drawn by two

horses, and however wide the ship might be, we could not get it into

her.”

“What is that to me?” said the justice. “The wolf will be killed.”

Ursus shuddered, as if he were grasped by a hand of ice.

“Monsters!” he thought. “Murdering people is their way of settling

matters.”

The innkeeper smiled, and addressed Ursus.

“Master Ursus, you can sell the Green Box.”

Ursus looked at Nicless.

“Master Ursus, you have the offer.”

“From whom?”

“An offer for the caravan, an offer for the two horses, an offer for the

two gipsy women, an offer--”

“From whom?” repeated Ursus.

“From the proprietor of the neighbouring circus.”

Ursus remembered it.

“It is true.”

Master Nicless turned to the justice of the quorum.

“Your honour, the bargain can be completed to-day. The proprietor of the

circus close by wishes to buy the caravan and the horses.”

“The proprietor of the circus is right,” said the justice, “because he

will soon require them. A caravan and horses will be useful to him. He,

too, will depart to-day. The reverend gentlemen of the parish of

Southwark have complained of the indecent riot in Tarrinzeau field. The

sheriff has taken his measures. To-night there will not be a single

juggler’s booth in the place. There must be an end of all these

scandals. The honourable gentleman who deigns to be here present--”

The justice of the quorum interrupted his speech to salute Barkilphedro,

who returned the bow.

“The honourable gentleman who deigns to be present has just arrived from

Windsor. He brings orders. Her Majesty has said, ‘It must be swept

away.’”

Ursus, during his long meditation all night, had not failed to put

himself some questions. After all, he had only seen a bier. Could he be

sure that it contained Gwynplaine? Other people might have died besides

Gwynplaine. A coffin does not announce the name of the corpse, as it

passes by. A funeral had followed the arrest of Gwynplaine. That proved

nothing. _Post hoc, non propter hoc, etc_. Ursus had begun to doubt.

Hope burns and glimmers over misery like naphtha over water. Its

hovering flame ever floats over human sorrow. Ursus had come to this

conclusion, “It is probable that it was Gwynplaine whom they buried, but

it is not certain. Who knows? Perhaps Gwynplaine is still alive.”

Ursus bowed to the justice.

“Honourable judge, I will go away, we will go away, all will go away, by

the _Vograat_ of Rotterdam, to-day. I will sell the Green Box, the

horses, the trumpets, the gipsies. But I have a comrade, whom I cannot

leave behind--Gwynplaine.”

“Gwynplaine is dead,” said a voice.

Ursus felt a cold sensation, such as is produced by a reptile crawling

over the skin. It was Barkilphedro who had just spoken.

The last gleam was extinguished. No more doubt now. Gwynplaine was dead.

A person in authority must know. This one looked ill-favoured enough to

do so.

Ursus bowed to him.

Master Nicless was a good-hearted man enough, but a dreadful coward.

Once terrified, he became a brute. The greatest cruelty is that inspired

by fear.

He growled out,--

“This simplifies matters.”

And he indulged, standing behind Ursus, in rubbing his hands, a

peculiarity of the selfish, signifying, “I am well out of it,” and

suggestive of Pontius Pilate washing his hands.

Ursus, overwhelmed, bent down his head.

The sentence on Gwynplaine had been executed--death. His sentence was

pronounced--exile. Nothing remained but to obey. He felt as in a dream.

Some one touched his arm. It was the other person, who was with the

justice of the quorum. Ursus shuddered.

The voice which had said, “Gwynplaine is dead,” whispered in his ear,--

“Here are ten guineas, sent you by one who wishes you well.”

And Barkilphedro placed a little purse on a table before Ursus. We must

not forget the casket that Barkilphedro had taken with him.

Ten guineas out of two thousand! It was all that Barkilphedro could make

up his mind to part with. In all conscience it was enough. If he had

given more, he would have lost. He had taken the trouble of finding out

a lord; and having sunk the shaft, it was but fair that the first

proceeds of the mine should belong to him. Those who see meanness in the

act are right, but they would be wrong to feel astonished. Barkilphedro

loved money, especially money which was stolen. An envious man is an

avaricious one. Barkilphedro was not without his faults. The commission

of crimes does not preclude the possession of vices. Tigers have their

lice.

Besides, he belonged to the school of Bacon.

Barkilphedro turned towards the justice of the quorum, and said to

him,--

“Sir, be so good as to conclude this matter. I am in haste. A carriage

and horses belonging to her Majesty await me. I must go full gallop to

Windsor, for I must be there within two hours’ time. I have intelligence

to give, and orders to take.”

The justice of the quorum arose.

He went to the door, which was only latched, opened it, and, looking

silently towards the police, beckoned to them authoritatively. They

entered with that silence which heralds severity of action.

Master Nicless, satisfied with the rapid _dénouement_ which cut short

his difficulties, charmed to be out of the entangled skein, was afraid,

when he saw the muster of officers, that they were going to apprehend

Ursus in his house. Two arrests, one after the other, made in his

house--first that of Gwynplaine, then that of Ursus--might be injurious

to the inn. Customers dislike police raids.

Here then was a time for a respectful appeal, suppliant and generous.

Master Nicless turned toward the justice of the quorum a smiling face,

in which confidence was tempered by respect.

“Your honour, I venture to observe to your honour that these honourable

gentlemen, the police officers, might be dispensed with, now that the

wolf is about to be carried away from England, and that this man, Ursus,

makes no resistance; and since your honour’s orders are being punctually

carried out, your honour will consider that the respectable business of

the police, so necessary to the good of the kingdom, does great harm to

an establishment, and that my house is innocent. The merry-andrews of

the Green Box having been swept away, as her Majesty says, there is no

longer any criminal here, as I do not suppose that the blind girl and

the two women are criminals; therefore, I implore your honour to deign

to shorten your august visit, and to dismiss these worthy gentlemen who

have just entered, because there is nothing for them to do in my house;

and, if your honour will permit me to prove the justice of my speech

under the form of a humble question, I will prove the inutility of these

revered gentlemen’s presence by asking your honour, if the man, Ursus,

obeys orders and departs, who there can be to arrest here?”

“Yourself,” said the justice.

A man does not argue with a sword which runs him through and through.

Master Nicless subsided--he cared not on what, on a table, on a form, on

anything that happened to be there--prostrate.

The justice raised his voice, so that if there were people outside, they

might hear.

“Master Nicless Plumptree, keeper of this tavern, this is the last point

to be settled. This mountebank and the wolf are vagabonds. They are

driven away. But the person most in fault is yourself. It is in your

house, and with your consent, that the law has been violated; and you, a

man licensed, invested with a public responsibility, have established

the scandal here. Master Nicless, your licence is taken away; you must

pay the penalty, and go to prison.”

The policemen surrounded the innkeeper.

The justice continued, pointing out Govicum,--

“Arrest that boy as an accomplice.” The hand of an officer fell upon the

collar of Govicum, who looked at him inquisitively. The boy was not much

alarmed, scarcely understanding the occurrence; having already observed

many things out of the way, he wondered if this were the end of the

comedy.

The justice of the quorum forced his hat down on his head, crossed his

hands on his stomach, which is the height of majesty, and added,--

“It is decided, Master Nicless; you are to be taken to prison, and put

into jail, you and the boy; and this house, the Tadcaster Inn, is to

remain shut up, condemned and closed. For the sake of example. Upon

which, you will follow us.”

BOOK THE SEVENTH.

_THE TITANESS._

CHAPTER I.

THE AWAKENING.

And Dea!

It seemed to Gwynplaine, as he watched the break of day at Corleone

Lodge, while the things we have related were occurring at the Tadcaster

Inn, that the call came from without; but it came from within.

Who has not heard the deep clamours of the soul?

Moreover, the morning was dawning.

Aurora is a voice.

Of what use is the sun if not to reawaken that dark sleeper--the

conscience?

Light and virtue are akin.

Whether the god be called Christ or Love, there is at times an hour when

he is forgotten, even by the best. All of us, even the saints, require a

voice to remind us; and the dawn speaks to us, like a sublime monitor.

Conscience calls out before duty, as the cock crows before the dawn of

day.

That chaos, the human heart, hears the _fiat lux_!

Gwynplaine--we will continue thus to call him (Clancharlie is a lord,

Gwynplaine is a man)--Gwynplaine felt as if brought back to life. It was

time that the artery was bound up.

For a while his virtue had spread its wings and flown away.

“And Dea!” he said.

Then he felt through his veins a generous transfusion. Something

healthy and tumultuous rushed upon him. The violent irruption of good

thoughts is like the return home of a man who has not his key, and who

forces his own look honestly. It is an escalade, but an escalade of

good. It is a burglary, but a burglary of evil.

“Dea! Dea! Dea!” repeated he.

He strove to assure himself of his heart’s strength. And he put the

question with a loud voice--“Where are you?”

He almost wondered that no one answered him.

Then again, gazing on the walls and the ceiling, with wandering

thoughts, through which reason returned.

“Where are you? Where am I?”

And in the chamber which was his cage he began to walk again, to and

fro, like a wild beast in captivity.

“Where am I? At Windsor. And you? In Southwark. Alas! this is the first

time that there has been distance between us. Who has dug this gulf? I

here, thou there. Oh, it cannot be; it shall not be! What is this that

they have done to me?”

He stopped.

“Who talked to me of the queen? What do I know of such things? _I_

changed! Why? Because I am a lord. Do you know what has happened, Dea?

You are a lady. What has come to pass is astounding. My business now is

to get back into my right road. Who is it who led me astray? There is a

man who spoke to me mysteriously. I remember the words which he

addressed to me. ‘My lord, when one door opens another is shut. That

which you have left behind is no longer yours.’ In other words, you are

a coward. That man, the miserable wretch! said that to me before I was

well awake. He took advantage of my first moment of astonishment. I was

as it were a prey to him. Where is he, that I may insult him? He spoke

to me with the evil smile of a demon. But see--I am myself again. That

is well. They deceive themselves if they think that they can do what

they like with Lord Clancharlie, a peer of England. Yes, with a peeress,

who is Dea! Conditions! Shall I accept them? The queen! What is the

queen to me? I never saw her. I am not a lord to be made a slave. I

enter my position unfettered. Did they think they had unchained me for

nothing? They have unmuzzled me. That is all. Dea! Ursus! we are

together. That which you were, I was; that which I am, you are. Come.

No. I will go to you directly--directly. I have already waited too long.

What can they think, not seeing me return! That money. When I think I

sent them that money! It was myself that they wanted. I remember the man

said that I could not leave this place. We shall see that. Come! a

carriage, a carriage! put to the horses. I am going to look for them.

Where are the servants? I ought to have servants here, since I am a

lord. I am master here. This is my house. I will twist off the bolts, I

will break the locks, I will kick down the doors, I will run my sword

through the body of any one who bars my passage. I should like to see

who shall stop me. I have a wife, and she is Dea. I have a father, who

is Ursus. My house is a palace, and I give it to Ursus. My name is a

diadem, and I give it to Dea. Quick, directly, Dea, I am coming; yes,

you may be sure that I shall soon stride across the intervening space!”

And raising the first piece of tapestry he came to, he rushed from the

chamber impetuously.

He found himself in a corridor.

He went straight forward.

A second corridor opened out before him.

All the doors were open.

He walked on at random, from chamber to chamber, from passage to

passage, seeking an exit.

CHAPTER II.

THE RESEMBLANCE OF A PALACE TO A WOOD.

In palaces after the Italian fashion, and Corleone Lodge was one, there

were very few doors, but abundance of tapestry screens and curtained

doorways. In every palace of that date there was a wonderful labyrinth

of chambers and corridors, where luxury ran riot; gilding, marble,

carved wainscoting, Eastern silks; nooks and corners, some secret and

dark as night, others light and pleasant as the day. There were attics,

richly and brightly furnished; burnished recesses shining with Dutch

tiles and Portuguese azulejos. The tops of the high windows were

converted into small rooms and glass attics, forming pretty habitable

lanterns. The thickness of the walls was such that there were rooms

within them. Here and there were closets, nominally wardrobes. They were

called “The Little Rooms.” It was within them that evil deeds were

hatched.

When a Duke of Guise had to be killed, the pretty Présidente of

Sylvecane abducted, or the cries of little girls brought thither by

Lebel smothered, such places were convenient for the purpose. They were

labyrinthine chambers, impracticable to a stranger; scenes of

abductions; unknown depths, receptacles of mysterious disappearances. In

those elegant caverns princes and lords stored their plunder. In such a

place the Count de Charolais hid Madame Courchamp, the wife of the Clerk

of the Privy Council; Monsieur de Monthulé, the daughter of Haudry, the

farmer of La Croix Saint Lenfroy; the Prince de Conti, the two beautiful

baker women of L’Ile Adam; the Duke of Buckingham, poor Pennywell, etc.

The deeds done there were such as were designated by the Roman law as

committed _vi, clam, et precario_--by force, in secret, and for a short

time. Once in, an occupant remained there till the master of the house

decreed his or her release. They were gilded oubliettes, savouring both

of the cloister and the harem. Their staircases twisted, turned,

ascended, and descended. A zigzag of rooms, one running into another,

led back to the starting-point. A gallery terminated in an oratory. A

confessional was grafted on to an alcove. Perhaps the architects of “the

little rooms,” building for royalty and aristocracy, took as models the

ramifications of coral beds, and the openings in a sponge. The branches

became a labyrinth. Pictures turning on false panels were exits and

entrances. They were full of stage contrivances, and no

wonder--considering the dramas that were played there! The floors of

these hives reached from the cellars to the attics. Quaint madrepore

inlaying every palace, from Versailles downwards, like cells of pygmies

in dwelling-places of Titans. Passages, niches, alcoves, and secret

recesses. All sorts of holes and corners, in which was stored away the

meanness of the great.

These winding and narrow passages recalled games, blindfolded eyes,

hands feeling in the dark, suppressed laughter, blind man’s buff, hide

and seek, while, at the same time, they suggested memories of the

Atrides, of the Plantagenets, of the Médicis, the brutal knights of

Eltz, of Rizzio, of Monaldeschi; of naked swords, pursuing the fugitive

flying from room to room.

The ancients, too, had mysterious retreats of the same kind, in which

luxury was adapted to enormities. The pattern has been preserved

underground in some sepulchres in Egypt, notably in the tomb of King

Psammetichus, discovered by Passalacqua. The ancient poets have recorded

the horrors of these suspicious buildings. _Error circumflexus, locus

implicitus gyris_.

Gwynplaine was in the “little rooms” of Corleone Lodge. He was burning

to be off, to get outside, to see Dea again. The maze of passages and

alcoves, with secret and bewildering doors, checked and retarded his

progress. He strove to run; he was obliged to wander. He thought that he

had but one door to thrust open, while he had a skein of doors to

unravel. To one room succeeded another. Then a crossway, with rooms on

every side.

Not a living creature was to be seen. He listened. Not a sound.

At times he thought that he must be returning towards his

starting-point; then, that he saw some one approaching. It was no one.

It was only the reflection of himself in a mirror, dressed as a

nobleman. _That_ he? Impossible! Then he recognized himself, but not at

once.

He explored every passage that he came to.

He examined the quaint arrangements of the rambling building, and their

yet quainter fittings. Here, a cabinet, painted and carved in a

sentimental but vicious style; there, an equivocal-looking chapel,

studded with enamels and mother-of-pearl, with miniatures on ivory

wrought out in relief, like those on old-fashioned snuff-boxes; there,

one of those pretty Florentine retreats, adapted to the hypochondriasis

of women, and even then called _boudoirs_. Everywhere--on the ceilings,

on the walls, and on the very floors--were representations, in velvet or

in metal, of birds, of trees; of luxuriant vegetation, picked out in

reliefs of lacework; tables covered with jet carvings, representing

warriors, queens, and tritons armed with the scaly terminations of a

hydra. Cut crystals combining prismatic effects with those of

reflection. Mirrors repeated the light of precious stones, and sparkles

glittered in the darkest corners. It was impossible to guess whether

those many-sided, shining surfaces, where emerald green mingled with

the golden hues of the rising sun where floated a glimmer of

ever-varying colours, like those on a pigeon’s neck, were miniature

mirrors or enormous beryls. Everywhere was magnificence, at once refined

and stupendous; if it was not the most diminutive of palaces, it was the

most gigantic of jewel-cases. A house for Mab or a jewel for Geo.

Gwynplaine sought an exit. He could not find one. Impossible to make out

his way. There is nothing so confusing as wealth seen for the first

time. Moreover, this was a labyrinth. At each step he was stopped by

some magnificent object which appeared to retard his exit, and to be

unwilling to let him pass. He was encompassed by a net of wonders. He

felt himself bound and held back.

What a horrible palace! he thought. Restless, he wandered through the

maze, asking himself what it all meant--whether he was in prison;

chafing, thirsting for the fresh air. He repeated Dea! Dea! as if that

word was the thread of the labyrinth, and must be held unbroken, to

guide him out of it. Now and then he shouted, “Ho! Any one there?” No

one answered. The rooms never came to an end. All was deserted, silent,

splendid, sinister. It realized the fables of enchanted castles. Hidden

pipes of hot air maintained a summer temperature in the building. It was

as if some magician had caught up the month of June and imprisoned it in

a labyrinth. There were pleasant odours now and then, and he crossed

currents of perfume, as though passing by invisible flowers. It was

warm. Carpets everywhere. One might have walked about there, unclothed.

Gwynplaine looked out of the windows. The view from each one was

different. From one he beheld gardens, sparkling with the freshness of a

spring morning; from another a plot decked with statues; from a third, a

patio in the Spanish style, a little square, flagged, mouldy, and cold.

At times he saw a river--it was the Thames; sometimes a great tower--it

was Windsor.

It was still so early that there were no signs of life without.

He stood still and listened.

“Oh! I will get out of this place,” said he. “I will return to Dea! They

shall not keep me here by force. Woe to him who bars my exit! What is

that great tower yonder? If there was a giant, a hell-hound, a minotaur,

to keep the gate of this enchanted palace, I would annihilate him. If

an army, I would exterminate it. Dea! Dea!”

Suddenly he heard a gentle noise, very faint. It was like dropping

water. He was in a dark narrow passage, closed, some few paces further

on, by a curtain. He advanced to the curtain, pushed it aside, entered.

He leaped before he looked.

CHAPTER III.

EVE.

An octagon room, with a vaulted ceiling, without windows but lighted by

a skylight; walls, ceiling, and floors faced with peach-coloured marble;

a black marble canopy, like a pall, with twisted columns in the solid

but pleasing Elizabethan style, overshadowing a vase-like bath of the

same black marble--this was what he saw before him. In the centre of the

bath arose a slender jet of tepid and perfumed water, which, softly and

slowly, was filling the tank. The bath was black to augment fairness

into brilliancy.

It was the water which he had heard. A waste-pipe, placed at a certain

height in the bath, prevented it from overflowing. Vapour was rising

from the water, but not sufficient to cause it to hang in drops on the

marble. The slender jet of water was like a supple wand of steel,

bending at the slightest current of air. There was no furniture, except

a chair-bed with pillows, long enough for a woman to lie on at full

length, and yet have room for a dog at her feet. The French, indeed,

borrow their word _canapé_ from _can-al-pié_. This sofa was of Spanish

manufacture. In it silver took the place of woodwork. The cushions and

coverings were of rich white silk.

On the other side of the bath, by the wall, was a lofty dressing-table

of solid silver, furnished with every requisite for the table, having in

its centre, and in imitation of a window, eight small Venetian mirrors,

set in a silver frame. In a panel on the wall was a square opening, like

a little window, which was closed by a door of solid silver. This door

was fitted with hinges, like a shutter. On the shutter there glistened a

chased and gilt royal crown. Over it, and affixed to the wall, was a

bell, silver gilt, if not of pure gold.

Opposite the entrance of the chamber, in which Gwynplaine stood as if

transfixed, there was an opening in the marble wall, extending to the

ceiling, and closed by a high and broad curtain of silver tissue. This

curtain, of fairy-like tenuity, was transparent, and did not interrupt

the view. Through the centre of this web, where one might expect a

spider, Gwynplaine saw a more formidable object--a woman. Her dress was

a long chemise--so long that it floated over her feet, like the dresses

of angels in holy pictures; but so fine that it seemed liquid.

The silver tissue, transparent as glass and fastened only at the

ceiling, could be lifted aside. It separated the marble chamber, which

was a bathroom, from the adjoining apartment, which was a bedchamber.

This tiny dormitory was as a grotto of mirrors. Venetian glasses, close

together, mounted with gold mouldings, reflected on every side the bed

in the centre of the room. On the bed, which, like the toilet-table, was

of silver, lay the woman; she was asleep.

The crumpled clothes bore evidence of troubled sleep. The beauty of the

folds was proof of the quality of the material.

It was a period when a queen, thinking that she should be damned,

pictured hell to herself as a bed with coarse sheets.[20]

A dressing-gown, of curious silk, was thrown over the foot of the couch.

It was apparently Chinese; for a great golden lizard was partly visible

in between the folds.

Beyond the couch, and probably masking a door, was a large mirror, on

which were painted peacocks and swans.

Shadow seemed to lose its nature in this apartment, and glistened. The

spaces between the mirrors and the gold work were lined with that

sparkling material called at Venice thread of glass--that is, spun

glass.

At the head of the couch stood a reading desk, on a movable pivot, with

candles, and a book lying open, bearing this title, in large red

letters, “Alcoranus Mahumedis.”

Gwynplaine saw none of these details. He had eyes only for the woman. He

was at once stupefied and filled with tumultuous emotions, states

apparently incompatible, yet sometimes co-existent. He recognized her.

Her eyes were closed, but her face was turned towards him. It was the

duchess--she, the mysterious being in whom all the splendours of the

unknown were united; she who had occasioned him so many unavowable

dreams; she who had written him so strange a letter! The only woman in

the world of whom he could say, “She has seen me, and she desires me!”

He had dismissed the dreams from his mind; he had burnt the letter. He

had, as far as lay in his power, banished the remembrance of her from

his thoughts and dreams. He no longer thought of her. He had forgotten

her....

Again he saw her, and saw her terrible in power. His breath came in

short catches. He felt as if he were in a storm-driven cloud. He looked.

This woman before him! Was it possible? At the theatre a duchess; here a

nereid, a nymph, a fairy. Always an apparition. He tried to fly, but

felt the futility of the attempt. His eyes were riveted on the vision,

as though he were bound. Was she a woman? Was she a maiden? Both.

Messalina was perhaps present, though invisible, and smiled, while Diana

kept watch.

Over all her beauty was the radiance of inaccessibility. No purity could

compare with her chaste and haughty form. Certain snows, which have

never been touched, give an idea of it--such as the sacred whiteness of

the Jungfrau. Immodesty was merged in splendour. She felt the security

of an Olympian, who knew that she was daughter of the depths, and might

say to the ocean, “Father!” And she exposed herself, unattainable and

proud, to everything that should pass--to looks, to desires, to ravings,

to dreams; as proud in her languor, on her boudoir couch, as Venus in

the immensity of the sea-foam.

She had slept all night, and was prolonging her sleep into the daylight;

her boldness, begun in shadow, continued in light.

Gwynplaine shuddered. He admired her with an unhealthy and absorbing

admiration, which ended in fear. Misfortunes never come singly.

Gwynplaine thought he had drained to the dregs the cup of his ill-luck.

Now it was refilled. Who was it who was hurling all those unremitting

thunderbolts on his devoted head, and who had now thrown against him, as

he stood trembling there, a sleeping goddess? What! was the dangerous

and desirable object of his dream lurking all the while behind these

successive glimpses of heaven? Did these favours of the mysterious

tempter tend to inspire him with vague aspirations and confused ideas,

and overwhelm him with an intoxicating series of realities proceeding

from apparent impossibilities? Wherefore did all the shadows conspire

against him, a wretched man; and what would become of him, with all

those evil smiles of fortune beaming on him? Was his temptation

prearranged? This woman, how and why was she there? No explanation! Why

him? Why her? Was he made a peer of England expressly for this duchess?

Who had brought them together? Who was the dupe? Who the victim? Whose

simplicity was being abused? Was it God who was being deceived? All

these undefined thoughts passed confusedly, like a flight of dark

shadows, through his brain. That magical and malevolent abode, that

strange and prison-like palace, was it also in the plot? Gwynplaine

suffered a partial unconsciousness. Suppressed emotions threatened to

strangle him. He was weighed down by an overwhelming force. His will

became powerless. How could he resist? He was incoherent and entranced.

This time he felt he was becoming irremediably insane. His dark,

headlong fall over the precipice of stupefaction continued.

But the woman slept on.

What aggravated the storm within him was, that he saw not the princess,

not the duchess, not the lady, but the woman.

Gwynplaine, losing all self-command, trembled. What could he do against

such a temptation? Here were no skilful effects of dress, no silken

folds, no complex and coquettish adornments, no affected exaggeration of

concealment or of exhibition, no cloud. It was fearful simplicity--a

sort of mysterious summons--the shameless audacity of Eden. The whole of

the dark side of human nature was there. Eve worse than Satan; the human

and the superhuman commingled. A perplexing ecstasy, winding up in a

brutal triumph of instinct over duty. The sovereign contour of beauty is

imperious. When it leaves the ideal and condescends to be real, its

proximity is fatal to man.

Now and then the duchess moved softly on the bed, with the vague

movement of a cloud in the heavens, changing as a vapour changes its

form. Absurd as it may appear, though he saw her present in the flesh

before him, yet she seemed a chimera; and, palpable as she was, she

seemed to him afar off. Scared and livid, he gazed on. He listened for

her breathing, and fancied he heard only a phantom’s respiration. He

was attracted, though against his will. How arm himself against her--or

against himself? He had been prepared for everything except this danger.

A savage doorkeeper, a raging monster of a jailer--such were his

expected antagonists. He looked for Cerberus; he saw Hebe. A sleeping

woman! What an opponent! He closed his eyes. Too bright a dawn blinds

the eyes. But through his closed eyelids there penetrated at once the

woman’s form--not so distinct, but beautiful as ever.

Fly! Easier said than done. He had already tried and failed. He was

rooted to the ground, as if in a dream. When we try to draw back,

temptation clogs our feet and glues them to the earth. We can still

advance, but to retire is impossible. The invisible arms of sin rise

from below and drag us down.

There is a commonplace idea, accepted by every one, that feelings become

blunted by experience. Nothing can be more untrue. You might as well say

that by dropping nitric acid slowly on a sore it would heal and become

sound, and that torture dulled the sufferings of Damiens. The truth is,

that each fresh application intensifies the pain.

From one surprise after another, Gwynplaine had become desperate. That

cup, his reason, under this new stupor, was overflowing. He felt within

him a terrible awakening. Compass he no longer possessed. One idea only

was before him--the woman. An indescribable happiness appeared, which

threatened to overwhelm him. He could no longer decide for himself.

There was an irresistible current and a reef. The reef was not a rock,

but a siren--a magnet at the bottom of the abyss. He wished to tear

himself away from this magnet; but how was he to carry out his wish? He

had ceased to feel any basis of support. Who can foresee the

fluctuations of the human mind! A man may be wrecked, as is a ship.

Conscience is an anchor. It is a terrible thing, but, like the anchor,

conscience may be carried away.

He had not even the chance of being repulsed on account of his terrible

disfigurement. The woman had written to say that she loved him.

In every crisis there is a moment when the scale hesitates before

kicking the beam. When we lean to the worst side of our nature, instead

of strengthening our better qualities, the moral force which has been

preserving the balance gives way, and down we go. Had this critical

moment in Gwynplaine’s life arrived?

How could he escape?

So it is she--the duchess, the woman! There she was in that lonely

room--asleep, far from succour, helpless, alone, at his mercy; yet he

was in her power! The duchess! We have, perchance, observed a star in

the distant firmament. We have admired it. It is so far off. What can

there be to make us shudder in a fixed star? Well, one day--one night,

rather--it moves. We perceive a trembling gleam around it. The star

which we imagined to be immovable is in motion. It is no longer a star,

but a comet--the incendiary giant of the skies. The luminary moves on,

grows bigger, shakes off a shower of sparks and fire, and becomes

enormous. It advances towards us. Oh, horror, it is coming our way! The

comet recognizes us, marks us for its own, and will not be turned aside.

Irresistible attack of the heavens! What is it which is bearing down on

us? An excess of light, which blinds us; an excess of life, which kills

us. That proposal which the heavens make we refuse; that unfathomable

love we reject. We close our eyes; we hide; we tear ourselves away; we

imagine the danger is past. We open our eyes: the formidable star is

still before us; but, no longer a star, it has become a world--a world

unknown, a world of lava and ashes; the devastating prodigy of space. It

fills the sky, allowing no compeers. The carbuncle of the firmament’s

depths, a diamond in the distance, when drawn close to us becomes a

furnace. You are caught in its flames. And the first sensation of

burning is that of a heavenly warmth.

CHAPTER IV.

SATAN.

Suddenly the sleeper awoke. She sat up with a sudden and gracious

dignity of movement, her fair silken tresses falling in soft disorder.

Then stretching herself, she yawned like a tigress in the rising sun.

Perhaps Gwynplaine breathed heavily, as we do when we endeavour to

restrain our respiration.

“Is any one there?” said she.

She yawned as she spoke, and her very yawn was graceful. Gwynplaine

listened to the unfamiliar voice--the voice of a charmer, its accents

exquisitely haughty, its caressing intonation softening its native

arrogance. Then rising on her knees--there is an antique statue kneeling

thus in the midst of a thousand transparent folds--she drew the

dressing-gown towards her, and springing from the couch stood upright.

In the twinkling of an eye the silken robe was around her. The trailing

sleeve concealed her hands; only the tips of her toes, with little pink

nails like those of an infant, were left visible. Having drawn from

underneath the dressing-gown a mass of hair which had been imprisoned by

it, she crossed behind the couch to the end of the room, and placed her

ear to the painted mirror, which was, apparently, a door. Tapping the

glass with her finger, she called, “Is any one there? Lord David? Are

you come already? What time is it then? Is that you, Barkilphedro?” She

turned from the glass. “No! it was not there. Is there any one in the

bathroom? Will you answer? Of course not. No one could come that way.”

Going to the silver lace curtain, she raised it with her foot, thrust it

aside with her shoulder, and entered the marble room. An agonized

numbness fell upon Gwynplaine. No possibility of concealment. It was too

late to fly. Moreover, he was no longer equal to the exertion. He wished

that the earth might open and swallow him up. Anything to hide him.

She saw him. She stared, immensely astonished, but without the slightest

nervousness. Then, in a tone of mingled pleasure and contempt, she said,

“Why, it is Gwynplaine!” Suddenly with a rapid spring, for this cat was

a panther, she flung herself on his neck.

Suddenly, pushing him back, and holding him by both shoulders with her

small claw-like hands, she stood up face to face with him, and began to

gaze at him with a strange expression.

It was a fatal glance she gave him with her Aldebaran-like eyes--a

glance at once equivocal and starlike. Gwynplaine watched the blue eye

and the black eye, distracted by the double ray of heaven and of hell

that shone in the orbs thus fixed on him. The man and the woman threw a

malign dazzling reflection one on the other. Both were fascinated--he

by her beauty, she by his deformity. Both were in a measure

awe-stricken. Pressed down, as by an overwhelming weight, he was

speechless.

“Oh!” she cried. “How clever you are! You are come. You found out that I

was obliged to leave London. You followed me. That was right. Your being

here proves you to be a wonder.”

The simultaneous return of self-possession acts like a flash of

lightning. Gwynplaine, indistinctly warned by a vague, rude, but honest

misgiving, drew back, but the pink nails clung to his shoulders and

restrained him. Some inexorable power proclaimed its sway over him. He

himself, a wild beast, was caged in a wild beast’s den. She continued,

“Anne, the fool--you know whom I mean--the queen--ordered me to Windsor

without giving any reason. When I arrived she was closeted with her

idiot of a Chancellor. But how did you contrive to obtain access to me?

That’s what I call being a man. Obstacles, indeed! there are no such

things. You come at a call. You found things out. My name, the Duchess

Josiana, you knew, I fancy. Who was it brought you in? No doubt it was

the page. Oh, he is clever! I will give him a hundred guineas. Which way

did you get in? Tell me! No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.

Explanations diminish interest. I prefer the marvellous, and you are

hideous enough to be wonderful. You have fallen from the highest

heavens, or you have risen from the depths of hell through the devil’s

trap-door. Nothing can be more natural. The ceiling opened or the floor

yawned. A descent in a cloud, or an ascent in a mass of fire and

brimstone, that is how you have travelled. You have a right to enter

like the gods. Agreed; you are my lover.”

Gwynplaine was scared, and listened, his mind growing more irresolute

every moment. Now all was certain. Impossible to have any further doubt.

That letter! the woman confirmed its meaning. Gwynplaine the lover and

the beloved of a duchess! Mighty pride, with its thousand baleful heads,

stirred his wretched heart. Vanity, that powerful agent within us, works

us measureless evil.

The duchess went on, “Since you are here, it is so decreed. I ask

nothing more. There is some one on high, or in hell, who brings us

together. The betrothal of Styx and Aurora! Unbridled ceremonies beyond

all laws! The very day I first saw you I said, ‘It is he!’ I recognize

him. He is the monster of my dreams. He shall be mine. We should give

destiny a helping hand. Therefore I wrote to you. One question,

Gwynplaine: do you believe in predestination? For my part, I have

believed in it since I read, in Cicero, Scipio’s dream. Ah! I did not

observe it. Dressed like a gentleman! You in fine clothes! Why not? You

are a mountebank. All the more reason. A juggler is as good as a lord.

Moreover, what are lords? Clowns. You have a noble figure; you are

magnificently made. It is wonderful that you should be here. When did

you arrive? How long have you been here? Did you see me naked? I am

beautiful, am I not? I was going to take my bath. Oh, how I love you!

You read my letter! Did you read it yourself? Did any one read it to

you? Can you read? Probably you are ignorant. I ask questions, but don’t

answer them. I don’t like the sound of your voice. It is soft. An

extraordinary thing like you should snarl, and not speak. You sing

harmoniously. I hate it. It is the only thing about you that I do not

like. All the rest is terrible--is grand. In India you would be a god.

Were you born with that frightful laugh on your face? No! No doubt it is

a penal brand. I do hope you have committed some crime. Come to my

arms.”

She sank on the couch, and made him sit beside her. They found

themselves close together unconsciously. What she said passed over

Gwynplaine like a mighty storm. He hardly understood the meaning of her

whirlwind of words. Her eyes were full of admiration. She spoke

tumultuously, frantically, with a voice broken and tender. Her words

were music, but their music was to Gwynplaine as a hurricane. Again she

fixed her gaze upon him and continued,--

“I feel degraded in your presence, and oh, what happiness that is! How

insipid it is to be a grandee! I am noble; what can be more tiresome?

Disgrace is a comfort. I am so satiated with respect that I long for

contempt. We are all a little erratic, from Venus, Cleopatra, Mesdames

de Chevreuse and de Longueville, down to myself. I will make a display

of you, I declare. Here’s a love affair which will be a blow to my

family, the Stuarts. Ah! I breathe again. I have discovered a secret. I

am clear of royalty. To be free from its trammels is indeed deliverance.

To break down, defy, make and destroy at will, that is true enjoyment.

Listen, I love you.”

She paused; then with a frightful smile went on, “I love you, not only

because you are deformed, but because you are low. I love monsters, and

I love mountebanks. A lover despised, mocked, grotesque, hideous,

exposed to laughter on that pillory called a theatre, has for me an

extraordinary attraction. It is tasting the fruit of hell. An infamous

lover, how exquisite! To taste the apple, not of Paradise, but of

hell--such is my temptation. It is for that I hunger and thirst. I am

that Eve, the Eve of the depths. Probably you are, unknown to yourself,

a devil. I am in love with a nightmare. You are a moving puppet, of

which the strings are pulled by a spectre. You are the incarnation of

infernal mirth. You are the master I require. I wanted a lover such as

those of Medea and Canidia. I felt sure that some night would bring me

such a one. You are all that I want. I am talking of a heap of things of

which you probably know nothing. Gwynplaine, hitherto I have remained

untouched; I give myself to you, pure as a burning ember. You evidently

do not believe me; but if you only knew how little I care!”

Her words flowed like a volcanic eruption. Pierce Mount Etna, and you

may obtain some idea of that jet of fiery eloquence.

Gwynplaine stammered, “Madame--”