 Section 77 of The Man Who Laughs, by Victor Hugo. Part 2. Book 5, Chapter 2. The Waif knows its own course. All this had occurred owing to the circumstance of a soldier having found a bottle on the beach. We will relate the facts. In all facts there are wheels within wheels. One day one of the four gunners composing the garrison of Castle Calshore picked up on the sand at low water a flask covered with wicker which had been cast up by the tide. This flask, covered with mold, was corked by a tarred bong. The soldier carried the waif to the kernel of the castle and the kernel sent it to the High Admiral of England. The Admiral meant the Admiralty. With waifs the Admiralty meant Barcl Fadrow. Barcl Fadrow, having uncorked and emptied the bottle, carried it to the Queen. The Queen immediately took the matter into consideration. Two weighty counsellors were instructed and consulted, namely the Lord Chancellor, who is by law the guardian of the King's conscience, and the Lord Marshal, who is referee in heraldry and in the pedigrees of the nobility. Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, a Catholic peer, who is hereditary Earl Marshal of England, had sent word by his deputy Earl Marshal, Henry Howard, Earl Benden, that he would agree with the Lord Chancellor. The Lord Chancellor was William Cowper. We must not confound this Chancellor with his namesake and contemporary William Cowper, the anatomist and commentator on Bidlew, who published a treatise on muscles, in England, at the very time that Etienne Abio published a history of bones in France. A surgeon is a very different thing from a Lord. Lord William Cowper is celebrated for having, with reference to the affair of Talbot Yelverton, this Count Longaville, propounded this opinion, that in the English constitution the restoration of a pier is more important than the restoration of a king. The flask found at Cowshore had awakened his interest in the highest degree. The author of a maxim delights and opportunities to which it may be applied. Here was a case of the restoration of a pier. Search was made. Gwyn Plain, by the inscription over his door, was soon found. Neither was Harquinone dead. A prison wrought some man, but preserves him. If to keep is to preserve. People placed in Bastille were rarely removed. There is little more chance in the dungeon than in the tomb. Harquinone was still in prison at Chatham. They had only to put their hands on him. He was transferred from Chatham to London. In the meantime information was sought in Switzerland. The facts were found to be correct. They obtained from the local archives at Vevi, at Lausanne, the certificate of Lord Linnaeus' marriage and exile, the certificate of his child's birth, the certificate of the deceased of the father and mother, when they had duplicates, duly authenticated, made to answer all necessary requirements. All this was done with the most rigid secrecy, with what is called royal promptitude, and with that mole-like silence recommended and practiced by Bacon, and later on made law by Blackstone, for affairs connected with the chancellorship and the state, and in matters termed parliamentary. The Yusu reggies and the signature Jeffries were authenticated. To those who have studied pathologically the cases of Caprice called Our Good Will and Pleasure, this Yusu reggies is very simple. Why should James II, whose credit required the concealment of such acts, have allowed that to be written which endangered their success? The answer is cynicism, haughty indifference. Oh! You believe that a frontry is confined to abandoned women? The reason they're taught is equally abandoned. At Sukupit's Ante Wideri, to commit a crime and emblazon it, there is the sum total of history, King tattoos himself like the convict. Often when it would be to a man's greatest advantage to escape from the hands of the police or the records of history, he would seem to regret the escaped so great is the love of notoriety. Look at my arm. Observe the design. I am like an air. See a temple of love and a burning heart pierced through with an arrow. Yusu reggies. It is I, James II. A man commits a bad action and places his mark upon it. To fill up the measure of crime by a frontry, it announce himself, to cling to his misdeeds, is the insolent bravado of the criminal. Christina sees Monaldeschi, had him confessed and assassinated, and said, I am the queen of Sweden in the palace of the king of France. There is the tyrant who conceals himself, like Tiberius, and the tyrant who displays himself, like Philip II. One has the attributes of the Scorpion, the other those rather of the Leopard. James II was of this latter variety. He had, we know, a gay and open countenance, differing so far from Philip. Philip was Solon, James Jovial. Both were equally ferocious. James II was an easy-minded tiger, like Philip II, his crimes lay light upon his conscience. He was a monster by the grace of God. Therefore he had nothing to dissimulate nor to extenuate, and his assassinations were by divine right. He, too, would not have minded leaving behind him those archives of samankas, with all his misdeeds dated, classified, labeled, and put in order, each in its compartment, like poisons in the cabinet of a chemist. To set the sign manual to crimes is right royal. Every de done is a draft drawn on the great invisible paymaster. A bill had just come due with the ominous endorsement, Yusue Reggies. Queen Anne, in one particular unfeminine, seeing that she could keep a secret, demanded a confidential report of so grave a matter from the Lord Chancellor, one of the kind specified as Report to the Royal Ear. Reports of this kind had been common in all monarchies. At Vienna there was a Councillor of the Ear, an Aulich dignitary. It was an ancient Carlevingian office, the aricularious of the old palatine deeds. He who whispers to the Emperor, William Baron Cowper, Chancellor of England, whom the Queen believed in because he was short-sighted like herself, or even more so, had committed to writing a memorandum commencing thus. Two birds were subject to Solomon, a lap-wing, the hud-bud, who could speak all languages, and an eagle, the Simurganka, who covered with the shadow of his wings a caravan of twenty thousand men. Thus, under another form, Providence, etc. The Lord Chancellor proved the fact that the Ear to a peerage had been carried off, mutilated, and then restored. He did not blame James II, who was, after all, the Queen's father. He even went so far as to justify him. First there are ancient monarchial maxims. East Siniratu Eripimus, in Rotoragio Cadat. Secondly, there is a royal rite of mutilation. Chamberlain asserts the fact. Corporate Bona Nostrorum Subyaktorum Nostrosunt, said James I, of glorious and learned memory. The eyes of dukes of the blood royal have been plucked out for the good of the kingdom. Certain princes, too near to the throne, have been conveniently stifled between mattresses, the cause of death being given out as a poplixy. Now, to stifle is worse than to mutilate. The King of Tunis tore out the eyes of his father, Uli Asim, and his ambassadors have not been the less favorably received by the Emperor. Hence the King may order the suppression of a limb like the suppression of a state, etc. It is legal. But one law does not destroy another. If a drowned man is cast up by the water, and is not dead, it is an act of God readjusting one of the King. If the air be found, let the coronet be given back to him. Thus was it done for Lord Allah, King of Northumberland, who was also a Mountbank. Thus should be done to Gwyn Plain, who is also a King, seeing that he is a peer. The loneness of the occupation which has been obliged to follow, under constraint of superior power, does not tarnish the blazin. As in the case of Abdul Mumin, who was a King, although he had been a Gardener, that of Joseph, who was a Saint, although he had been a Carpenter, that of Apollo, who was a God, although he had been a Shepard. In short, the learned Chancellor concluded by advising the reinstatement, in all his estates and dignities, of Lord Firmain Clan Charlie, miscalled Gwyn Plain, on the sole condition that he should be confronted with a criminal hard quinone, and identified by the same. And on this point the Chancellor, as constitutional keeper of the royal conscience, based the royal decision. The Lord Chancellor added in a post-script, that if hard quinone refused to answer, he should be subjected to the PnA Forte at Dore, until the period called the Fraud Mortel, according to the statute of King Applestain, which orders the confrontation to take place on the fourth day. In this there is a certain inconvenience, for if the prisoner dies on the second or third day the confrontation becomes difficult. Still the law must be obeyed. The inconvenience of the law makes part and parcel of it. In the mind of the Lord Chancellor, however, the recognition of Gwyn Plain by hard quinone was indubitable. And having been made aware of the deformity of Gwyn Plain, and not wishing to wrong her sister, on whom had been bestowed the estates of Clan Charlie, graciously decided that the Duchess Josiana should be espoused by the new Lord. That is to say, by Gwyn Plain. The reinstatement of Lord Vermane Clan Charlie was, moreover, a very simple affair, the heir being legitimate, and in the direct line. In cases of doubtful dissent, and of peerages in abeyance claimed by collaterals, the House of Lords must be consulted. This, to go no farther back, was done in 1782, in the case of the barony of Sydney, claimed by Elizabeth Perry, in 1798, in that of the barony of Beaumont, claimed by Thomas Stapleton, in 1803, in that of the barony of Chandos, claimed by the reverend Timewell Bridges, in 1813, in that of the earldom of Vanbury, claimed by General Nollies, etc., etc. But the present was no similar case. Here there was no pretense for litigation. The legitimacy was undoubted, the right, clear, and certain. There was no point to submit to the House, and the Queen, assisted by the Lord Chancellor, had power to recognize and admit the new peer. Barcl Fagio managed everything. The affair, thanks to him, was kept so close, the secret was so hermetically sealed, that neither Josiana nor Lord David caught sight of the fearful abyss which was being dug under them. It was easy to deceive Josiana, entrenched as she was behind a rampart of pride. She was self-isolated. As to Lord David, they sent him to sea, off the coast of Flanders. He was going to lose his peerage, and had no suspicion of it. One circumstance is noteworthy. It happened that at six leagues from the anchorage of the naval station commanded by Lord David, a captain called Halle Burton broke through the French fleet. The Earl of Pimbroke, president of the council, proposed that this captain Halle Burton should be made Vice Admiral, and struck out Halle Burton's name, and put Lord David during moise in its place, that he might, when no longer a peer, had the satisfaction of being a Vice Admiral. Anne was well pleased. A hideous husband for her sister, and a fine step for Lord David, mischief and kindness combined. Her Majesty was going to enjoy a comedy. Besides, she argued to herself, that she was repairing an abuse of power committed by her August father. She was reinstating a member of the peerage. She was acting like a great queen. She was protecting innocence, according to the will of God, that providence in its holy and impenetrable ways, etc., etc. It is very sweet to do a just action which is disagreeable to those whom we do not like. To know that the future husband of her sister was deformed, suffice the Queen. In what manner Gwynn Plain was deformed, and by what kind of ugliness, Barcl Fajro had not communicated to the Queen, and Anne had not deigned to inquire. She was proudly and royally disdainful. Besides, what could it matter? The House of Lords could not but be grateful. The Lord Chancellor, its oracle, had approved. To restore a peer is to restore the peerage. Royalty on this occasion had shown itself a good and scrupulous guardian of the privileges of the peerage. Whatever might be the face of the new Lord, a face cannot be urged in objection to a right. Anne said all this to herself, or something like it, and went straight to her object, an object at once grand, womanlike, and regal. Namely, to give herself a pleasure. The Queen was then at Windsor, a circumstance which placed a certain distance between the intrigues of the court and the public. Only such persons as were absolutely necessary to the Plain were in the secret of what was taking place. As to Barcl Fajro, he was joyful, a circumstance which gave a lugubrious expression to his face. If there be one thing in the world which can be more hideous than another, to his joy. He had added a light of being the first to taste the contents of Harquinone's flask. He seemed, but little surprised, for astonishment is the attribute of a little mind. Besides, was it not all due to him, who had waited so long on duty at the gate of chance? Knowing how to wait, he had fairly won his reward. This nil admirari was an expression of face. At heart we may admit that he was very much astonished. Anyone who could have lifted the mask with which he covered his inmost heart, even before God, would have discovered this. That at the very time Barcl Fajro had begun to feel finally convinced that it would be impossible, even to him, the intimate and most infinitesimal enemy of Josiana, to find a vulnerable point in her lofty life. Hence an access of savage animosity lurked in his mind. He had reached the paroxysm which is called discouragement. He was all the more furious, because despairing. To Nahuan's chain, how tragic and appropriate the expression. A villain gnawing at his own powerlessness. Barcl Fajro was perhaps just on the point of renouncing not his desire to do evil to Josiana, but his hope of doing it. Not the rage, but the effort. But how degrading to be thus baffled, to keep hate thins forth in a case, like a dagger in a museum. How bitter the humiliation. All at once to a certain goal, chance, immense and universal, loves to bring such coincidences about, the flask of hard quinone came, driven from wave to wave, into Barcl Fajro's hands. There is, in the unknown, an indescribable fealty which seems to be at the beck and call of evil. Barcl Fajro, assisted by two chance witnesses, disinterested jurors of the amorality, uncorked the flask, found the parchment, unfolded, read it. What words could express his devilish delight? It is strange to think that the sea, the wind, space, the ebb and flow of the tide, storms, calms, breezes, should have given themselves so much trouble to bestow happiness on a scoundrel. That cooperation had continued for fifteen years, mysterious efforts. During fifteen years the ocean had never for an instant ceased from its labours. The waves transmitted from one to another the floating bottle. The shelving rocks had shunned the brittle glass. No crack had yawned in the flask. No friction had displaced the cork. The seaweeds had not rotted the osea. The shells had not eaten out the word hardquinone. The water had not penetrated into the wave. The mould had not rotted the parchment. The wet had not effaced the writing. What trouble the embiss must have taken! Thus that which Gernardus had flung into darkness, darkness had handed back to Barcl Fajro. The message sent to God had reached the devil. Space had committed an abuse of confidence and a lurking sarcasm which mingles with events had so arranged that it had complicated the loyal triumph of the lost child's becoming Lord Clan Charlie with a venomous victory. In doing a good action it had mischievously placed justice at the service of iniquity. To save the victim of James II was to give a pray to Barcl Fajro. To reinstate Gwynnplain was to crush Josiana. Barcl Fajro had succeeded, and it was for this that for so many years the waves, the surge, the squalls had buffeted, shaken, thrown, pushed, tormented, and respected this bubble of glass which bore within it so many co-mingled fates. It was for this that there had been a cordial co-operation between the winds, the tithes, and the tempests. A vast agitation of all prodigies for the pleasure of a scoundrel. The infinite co-operating with an earthworm. Destiny a subject to such grim caprices. Barcl Fajro was struck by a flash of titanic pride. He said to himself that it had all been done to fulfill his intentions. He felt that he was the object and the instrument. But he was wrong. Let us clear the character of chance. Such was not the real meaning of the remarkable circumstance of which the hatred of Barcl Fajro was to profit. Ocean had made itself father and mother to an orphan, had sent the hurricane against his executioners, direct the vessel which had repulsed the child, had swallowed up the clasped hands of the storm-beaten sailors, refusing their supplications and accepting only their repentance. The tempest received a deposit from the hands of death. The strong vessel containing the crime was replaced by the fragile file containing the reparation. The sea changed its character, and like a panther turning nurse began to rock the cradle, not of the child, but of his destiny, whilst he grew up ignorant of all that the depths of the ocean were doing for him. The waves to which this flask had been flung watching over that pass which contained a future, the whirlwind breathing kindly on it, the currents directing the frail waves across the fathomless wastes of water, the caution exercised by seaweed, the swells, the rocks, the vast froth of the abyss, taking under its protection an innocent child, the wave imperturbable as a conscience, chaos re-establishing order, the world-wide shadows ending in radiance, darkness employed to bring to light the star of truth, the exile consoled in his tomb, the air given back to his inheritance, the crime of the king repaired, divine premeditation obeyed, the little, the weak, the deserted child, with infinity for a guardian. All this sparkle-phagio might have seen in the event on which he triumphed. This is what he did not see. He did not believe that it had all been done for Gwynne Plain. He fancied that it had been affected for Barcl Phaedro, and that he was well worth the trouble. Thus it is ever with Satan. Moreover, ere we feel astonished that a wave so fragile should have floated for fifteen years undamaged, we should seek to understand the tender care of the ocean. Fifteen years is nothing. On the 4th of October, 1867, on the coasts of Morbehane, between the Isle de Croix, the extremity of the peninsula de Gavres, and the Roche des Arants, the fishermen of Port Louis found a Roman emphora of the fourth century, covered with arabesques by the incrustations of the sea. That emphora had been floating fifteen hundred years. Whatever appearance of indifference Barcl Phaedro tried to exhibit, his wonder had equaled his joy. Everything he could desire was there to his hand. All seemed ready-made. The fragments of the event which was to satisfy his hate were spread out within his reach. He had nothing to do but to pick them up and fit them together, for a pair which it was an amusement to execute. He was the artificer, Gwynn Plain. He knew the name, Mosca Redens. Like everyone else, he had been to see the Laughing Man. He had read the sign nailed up against the tadcaster end as one reads a playbill that attracts a crowd. He had noted it. He remembered it directly in its most minute details, and in any case it was easy to compare them with the original. That notice and the electrical summons which arose in his memory appeared in the depths of his mind and placed itself by the side of the parchment signed by the shipwrecked crew like an answer following a question, like the solution following an enema. And the lines, Here is to be seen Gwynn Plain, deserted at the age of ten on the twenty-ninth of January sixteen ninety on the coast of Portland, suddenly appeared to his eyes in the splendor of an apocalypse. His vision was the light of many Tecal Ufarsan outside a booth. Here was the destruction of the edifice which made the existence of Josiana. A sudden earthquake. The lost child was found. There was a Lord Clan, Charlie. David Deremois was nobody. Peerage, riches, power, rank. All these things left Lord David and entered Gwynn Plain. All the castles, parks, forests, townhouses, palaces, domains, Josiana included, belonged to Gwynn Plain. And what a climax for Josiana. What had she now before her? A lustreous and haughty, a player, beautiful, a monster. Who could have hoped for this? The truth was that the joy of Barcl Fagio had become enthusiastic. The most hateful combinations are surpassed by the infernal munificence of the unforeseen. When reality likes it works masterpieces. Barcl Fagio found that all his dreams had been nonsense. Reality were better. The change he was about to work would not have seemed less desirable had it been detrimental to him. Insects exist which are so savagely disinterested that they sting, knowing that to sting is to die. Barcl Fagio was like such vermin. But this time he had not the merit of being disinterested. Lord David, during moi, owed him nothing, and Lord Fremain Clan Charlie was about to owe him everything. From being a protégé Barcl Fagio was about to become a protector. Protector of whom? Of a peer of England. He was going to have a lord of his own and a lord who would become his creature. Barcl Fagio counted on giving him his first impressions. His peer would be the morganatic brother-in-law of the Queen. His ugliness would please the Queen in the same proportions as it displeased Josiana. Advancing by such favour, and assuming grave and modest heirs, Barcl Fagio might become a somebody. He had always been destined for the church. He had a vague longing to be a bishop. Meanwhile, he was happy. Oh, what a great success! And what a deal of useful work had chance accomplished for him. His vengeance, for he called it his vengeance, had been softly brought to him by the waves. He had not lain in ambush in vain. He was the rock, Josiana was the wave. Josiana was about to be dashed against Barcl Fagio to his intense villainous ecstasy. He was clever in the art of suggestions, which consists in making, in the minds of others, a little incision into which he put an idea of your own. Holding himself aloof and without appearing to mix himself up in the matter, it was he who arranged that Josiana should go to the green box and see Gwen playing. It could do no harm. The appearance of the Mount Bank, in his low estate, would be a good ingredient in the combination. Later on it would season it. He had quietly prepared everything beforehand. What he most desired was something unspeakably abrupt. The work on which he was engaged could only be expressed in these strange words, the construction of a thunderbolt. All preliminaries being complete, he had watched till all the necessary legal formalities had been accomplished. The secret had not oozed out, silence being an element of law. The confrontation of hard quinone with Gwen Plaine had taken place. Barcl Fagio had been present. We have seen the result. The same day, a post-chase belonging to the royal household was suddenly sent by Her Majesty to fetch Lady Josiana from London to Windsor, where the queen was at the time residing. Josiana, for reasons of her own, would have been very glad to disobey, or at least to delay, obedience, and put off her departure till next day, but court life does not permit of these objections. She was obliged to set out at once, and to leave her residence in London, Hunkerville House, for her residence at Windsor, Corleone Lodge. The Duchess Josiana left London at the very moment that the Wappentake appeared at the Tadcaster Inn to arrest Gwen Plaine and take him to the torture cell of Southwick. When she arrived at Windsor, the Usher of the Black Rod, who guards the door of the Presence Chamber, informed her that Her Majesty was an audience with the Lord Chancellor and could not receive her until the next day, that, consequently, she was terminating at Corleone Lodge at the orders of Her Majesty, and that she should receive the Queen's commands direct when Her Majesty awoke the next morning. Josiana entered her house feeling very spiteful, supped in a bad humour, had the spleen dismissed everyone except her page, then dismissed him, and went to bed while it was yet daylight. When she arrived, she had learned that Lord David DeRimoire was expected at Windsor the next day, owing to his having, whilst at sea, received orders to return immediately and receive Her Majesty's commands. End of Section 77 Section 78 of The Man Who Loves by Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Reem. The Man Who Loves by Victor Hugo Part 2, Book V, Chapter III, An Awakening No man could pass suddenly from Siberia to Senegal without losing consciousness. The soon of a man, even of one the most firm and energetic, under the sudden shock of an unexpected stroke of good fortune, is nothing wonderful. A man is knocked down by the unforeseen blow, like a nox by the poor axe. Francis del Bescola, he who tore from the Turkish ports their iron chains, remained a whole day without consciousness when they made him Pope. Now, the stride from a cardinal to a Pope is less than that from a mountbank to a pier of England. No shock is so violent as a loss of equilibrium. When Gwyn Plain came to himself and opened his eyes, it was night. He was in an armchair in the midst of a large timber lined throughout with purple fenvet over walls, ceiling, and floor. The carpet was fenvet. Standing near him with uncovered head was the fat man in the traveling cloak who had emerged from behind the pillar in the cell at Southwark. Gwyn Plain was alone in the chamber with him. From the chair, by extending his arms, he could reach two tables, each bearing a branch of six slighted-box candles. On one of these tables, there were papers and a casket. On the other, refreshments, a cold foal, wine, and brandy served on a silver-gilled silver. Through the panes of a high window reaching from the ceiling to the floor, a semi-cycle of pillars was to be seen in the clear April night, encycling a courtyard with three gates, one very wide and the other too low. The carriage gate of great size was in the middle, on the right, that for a Christiane, smaller, on the left, that for foot passengers, stillness. These gates were formed of iron railings with glittering points. A tall piece of sculpture cemented the central one. The columns were probably in white marble, as well as the pavement of the course thus producing an effect like snow. Unframed in its sheet of flat flags was a mosaic, the pattern of which was vaguely marked in the shadow. This mosaic, when seen by daylight, would no doubt have disclosed to the site, with much unblesenery and many colours, a gigantic coat of arms in the Florentine fashion. Zig-zags of bodice-rads rose and fell, indicating stairs of the races. Over the court frowned an immense pile of architecture, now shadowy and vague in the starlight. Intervals of sky, full of stars, marked clearly the outline of the palace. An enormous roof could be seen with the gable ends bolted, garret windows, roofed oval-like visors, chimneys like towers, and anteblators covered with motionless cuts and goddesses. Beyond the colonnade, there played in the shadow one of those very fountains in which, as the water falls from basin to basin, it combines the beauty of rain with that of the cascade, and as if scattering the contents of a jewel box flings to the wind its diamonds and its pearls as though to divert the statues around. Long rows of windows ranged away, separated by panoplies in relief and by busts on small pedestals. On the pinecales trophies and morians with plumes cut in stone alternated with statues of heathen deities. In the chamber where Green Plain was, on the side opposite the window, was a fireplace as high at the ceiling and on another under a day, one of those old spacious feudal beds which were reached by a letter and where you might sleep lying across. The giant stool of the bed was at its side. A row of armchairs by the walls and a row of ordinary chairs in front of them completed the furniture. The ceiling was domed, a great wood fire in the French fashion blazed in the fireplace. By the richness of the flames variegated of rose color and green, a judge of such things would have seen that the wood was ash, a great luxury. The room was so large that the branches of candles failed to light it up. Here and there, curtains over doors, folding and swaying, indicated communications with other rooms. The style of the room was altogether that of the reign of James I, a style square and massive, antiquated and magnificent. Like the carpet and the lining of the chamber, the day, the bad liquor, the bed, the stool, the curtains, the mantelpiece, the coverings of the table, the sofas, the chairs were all of purple velvet. There was no gilding except on the ceiling. Layed on it, at equal distance from the four angles, was a huge round shield of embossed metal, on which sparkled in dazzling relief various coats of arms. Amongst the devices, on two blazons, side by side, were to be distinguished the cap of a barren and the coronet of a macris. Were they of brass or for a silver gild? You could not tell. They seemed to be of gold. And in the center of this lowly ceiling, like gloomy and magnificent sky, the gleaming scot-chewing was as the dark splendor of a sun shining in the night. The savage in whom is embodied the free man is nearly as restless in a palace as in a prison. This magnificent chamber was depressing. So much splendor produces fear. Who could be the inhabitant of this stately palace? To what colossus did all this condor appertain? Of what lion is this the lair? Gwynne Plaine, as yet bedolf awake, was heavy at heart. Where am I? he said. The man who was standing before him answered. You are in your own house, my lord. End of section 78. Recording by Rhyme Paris, France. Section 79 of The Man Who Laughs, by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by William Tomko. The Man Who Laughs, by Victor Hugo. Section 79, Part 2, Book V, Chapter 4. Fascination. It takes time to rise to the surface, and Gwynne Plaine had been thrown into an abyss of stupefaction. We do not gain our footing at once in unknown depths. There are routes of ideas as there are routes of armies. The rally is not immediate. We feel as it were scattered, as though some strange evaporation of self were taking place. God is the arm. Chance is the sling. Man is the pebble. How are you to resist once flung? Gwynne Plaine, if we may coin the expression, ricocheted from one surprise to another. After the love letter of the Duchess came the revelation in the south work dungeon. In destiny, when wonders begin, prepare yourself for blow upon blow. The gloomy portals once open, prodigies pour in. A breach once made in the wall, and events rush upon us, palmel. The marvelous never comes singly. The marvelous is an obscurity. The shadow of this obscurity was over at Gwynne Plaine. What was happening to him seemed unintelligible. He saw everything through the mist which a deep commotion leaves in the mind, like the dust caused by a falling ruin. The shock had been from top to bottom. Nothing was clear to him. However, light always returns by degrees. The dust settles. Moment by moment the density of establishment decreases. Gwynne Plaine was like a man with his eyes open and fixed in a dream as if trying to see what may be within it. He dispersed the mist. Then he reshaped it. He had intermittences of wandering. He underwit that oscillation of the mind in the unforeseen which alternately pushes us in the direction in which we understand and then throws us back in that which is incomprehensible. Who has not at some time felt this pendulum in his brain? By degrees his thoughts dilated in the darkness of the event as the pupil of his eye had done in the underground shadows at south work. The difficulty was to succeed in putting a certain space between accumulated sensations. Before that combustion of hazy ideas called comprehension can take place, air must be admitted between the emotions. There air was wanting. The event, so to speak, could not be breathed. In entering that terrible cell at south work, Gwynne Plaine had expected the iron collar of a felon. He had placed on his head the cornet of a pier. How could this be? There had not been space of time enough between what Gwynne Plaine had feared and what had really occurred. It had succeeded too quickly. His terror changing into other feelings too abruptly for comprehension. The contrasts were too tightly packed one against the other. Gwynne Plaine made an effort to withdraw his mind from the vice. He was silent. This is the instinct of great stupefaction which is more on the defensive than it is thought to be. Who says nothing is prepared for everything? A word of yours, allowed to drop, may be seized in some unknown system of wheels and your utter destruction be compassed in its complex machinery. The poor and weak live in terror of being crushed. The crowd ever expected to be trodden down. Gwynne Plaine had long been one of the crowd. A singular state of human uneasiness can be expressed by the words, let us see what will happen. Gwynne Plaine was in this state. You feel that you have not gained your equilibrium when an unexpected situation surges up under your feet. You watch for something which must produce a result. You are vaguely attentive. We will see what happens. What? You do not know? Whom? You watch. The man with the punch repeated, You are in your own house, my lord. Gwynne Plaine felt himself. In surprises we first looked to make sure that things exist. Then we feel ourselves to make sure that we exist ourselves. It was certainly to him that the words were spoken, but he himself was somebody else. He no longer had his jacket on or his esclavine of leather. He had a waistcoat of cloth of silver and a satin coat which he touched and found to be embroidered. He felt a heavy purse in his waistcoat pocket. A pair of velvet trunk hose covered his clown's tights. He wore shoes with high red heels. As they had brought him to this place, so had they changed his dress. The man resumed, Will your lordship begin to remember this? I am called Barquil Fedro. I am clerked to the admiralty. It was I who opened Hard Quinone's flask and drew your destiny out of it. Thus in the Arabian Nights a fisherman releases a giant from a bottle. Gwynne Plaine fixed his eyes on the smiling face of the speaker. Barquil Fedro continued, Besides this palace, my lord, Hunkerville House, which is larger, is yours. You own Clan Charlie Castle, from which you take your title and which was a fortress in the time of Edward the Elder. You have nineteen bailiwick's belonging to you with their villages and their inhabitants. This puts under your banner, as a landlord and a nobleman, about eighty thousand vassals and tenants. At Clan Charlie you are a judge, judge of all, both of goods and of persons, and you hold your baron's court. The king has no right which you have not, except a privilege of coining money. The king, designated by the Norman Law as Chief Senior, has justice, court, and coin. Coin is money, so that you, expecting in this last, are as much a king in your lordship as he is in his kingdom. You have the right, as a baron, to a gibbet with four pillars in England and, as a marquee, to a scaffold with seven posts in Sicily, that of the mere lord having two pillars, of a lord of the manor, three, and that of a duke, eight. You are styled prince in the ancient charters of Northumberland. You are related to the Viscounts Valencia in Ireland, whose name is Power, and to the earls of Umfraville in Scotland, whose name is Angus. You are chief of a clan, like Campbell, Ardmanac, and Macklemore. You have eight baron's courts, Reculver, Baston, Hell-Curtirs, Humble, Moorakam, Grundraith, Trenwardraith, and others. You have a right over the turf-cutting of Pildenmore and over the alabaster quarries near Trent. Moreover, you own all the country of Penethchase, and you have a mountain with an ancient town on it. The town is called Vinconton. The mountain is called Moilangley. All which gives you an income of forty thousand pounds a year. That is to say, forty times the five and twenty thousand francs with which a Frenchman is satisfied. Wilsd Barcl Fadrow spoke, Gwyn Plain, in a crescendo of stupor, remembered the past. Memory is a gulf that a word can move to its lowest depths. Gwyn Plain knew all the words pronounced by Barcl Fadrow. They were written in the last lines of the two scrolls, which lined the van in which his childhood had been passed, and from so often letting his eyes wander over them mechanically, he knew them by heart. On reaching a forsaken orphan, the traveling caravan at Weymouth, he had found the inventory of the inheritance which awaited him. And in the morning, when the poor little boy awoke, the first thing spelt by his careless and unconscious eyes was his own title and his possessions. It was a strange detail added to all his other surprises during fifteen years rolling from highway to highway, the clown of a traveling theatre, earning his bread day by day, picking up farthings, and living on crumbs, he should have traveled with the inventory of his fortune placarded over his misery. Barcl Fadrow touched the casket on the table with his forefinger. My lord, this casket contains two thousand guineas, which Her Gracious Majesty the Queen sent you for your present wands. Gwyn Plain made a movement. That shall be from my father, Ursus, he said. So be it, my lord, said Barcl Fadrow. Ursus, at the tadcaster inn. The sergeant of the quaff, who accompanied us hither and is about to return immediately, will carry them to him. Perhaps I may go to London myself, in that case I will take charge of it. I shall take them to him myself, said Gwyn Plain. Barcl Fadrow's smile disappeared, and he said, Impossible! There is an impressive inflection of voice which, as it were, underlines the words. Barcl Fadrow's tone was thus emphasized. He paused so as to put a full stop after the word he had just uttered. Then he continued, with a peculiar and respectful tone of a servant who feels that he is master. My lord, you are twenty-three miles from London, at Corleone Lodge, your court residence, contiguous to the royal castle of Windsor. You are here unknown to anyone. You were brought here in a closed carriage, which was awaiting you at the gate of the jail at Southwick. The servants who introduced you into this palace are ignorant who you are, but they know me, and that is sufficient. You may possibly have been brought to these apartments by means of a private key which is in my possession. There are people in the house asleep, and it is not an hour to awaken them. Hence we have time for an explanation which, nevertheless, will be short. I have been commissioned by Her Majesty. As he spoke, Barcl Fadrow began to turn over the leaves of some bundles of paper which were lying near the casket. My lord, here is your patent of peerage. Here is that of your Sicilian Marquisate. These are the parchments and title deeds of your eight baronies, with the seals of eleven kings, from Baldrett, king of Kent, to James, the sixth of Scotland, and first of England, and Scotland, united. Here are your letters of precedence. Here are your rent rolls, and titles, and descriptions of your fiefs, freeholds, dependencies, lands, and domains. That which you see above your head in the emblazement on the ceiling are your two coronettes, the circlet with pearls for the baron, and the circlet with strawberry leaves for the Marquis. Here, in the wardrobe, is your peer's robe of red velvet, bordered with ermine. Today, only a few hours since the lord chancellor and the deputy Earl Marshall of England informed of the result of your confrontation with the Comprachico hard qua non have taken Her Majesty's commands. Her Majesty has signed them, according to her royal will, which is the same as the law. All formalities have been complied with. Tomorrow, and no later than tomorrow, you will take your seat in the House of Lords, where they have for some days been deliberating on a bill presented by the Crown, having for its object the augmentation, by a hundred thousand pounds sterling yearly of the annual allowance to the Duke of Cumberland, husband of the Queen. You will be able to take part in the debate. Barquilfadro paused, breathed slowly, and resumed. However, nothing is yet settled. A man cannot be made a peer of England without his own consent. All can be annulled and disappear unless you acquiesce. An event nipped in the bud errant ripens often occurs in state policy. My Lord, up to this time silence has been preserved on what has occurred. The House of Lords will not be informed of the facts until tomorrow. Secrecy has been kept about the whole matter for reasons of state, which are of such importance that the influential persons who alone are at this moment cognizant of your existence and of your rights will forget them immediately should reasons of state command their being forgotten. That which is in darkness may remain in darkness. It is easy to wipe you out, the more so as you have a brother, the natural son of your father, and of a woman who afterwards, during the exile of your father, became mistress to King Charles II, which accounts for your brother's high position at court. For it is to this brother, bastard though he be, that your peerage would revert. Do you wish this? I cannot think so. Well, all depends on you. The Queen must be obeyed. You will not quit the house till tomorrow in a royal carriage and to go to the House of Lords. My Lord, will you be a peer of England? Yes or no? The Queen has designs for you. She destines you for an alliance almost royal. Lord Firmaine Clan Charlie, this is the decisive moment. Destiny never opens one door without shutting another. After a certain step in advance, to step back is impossible. Whoso enters into transfiguration leaves behind him evanescence. My Lord, Gwyn Plaine is dead. Do you understand? Gwyn Plaine trembled from head to foot. Then he recovered himself. Yes, he said. Barquil Fadrow, smiling, bowed, placed the casket under his cloak and left the room. End of Section 79. Recording by William Tomko. Section 80 of The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo. Part 2, Book V, Chapter 5. We think we remember, we forget. Whence arise those strange visible changes which occur in the soul of man? Gwyn Plaine had been at the same moment raised to a summit and cast into an abyss. His head swam with double giddiness, the giddiness of ascent and descent, a fatal combination. He felt himself ascend and felt not his fall. It is appalling to see a new horizon. A perspective affords suggestions, but not always good ones. He had before him the fairy-glade, a snare perhaps, seen through opening clouds and showing the blue depths of sky so deep that they are obscure. He was on the mountain whence he could see all the kingdoms of the earth, a mountain all the more terrible than it is a visionary one. Those who are on its apex are in a dream. Palaces, castles, power, opulence, all human happiness extending as far as I could reach. A map of enjoyments spread out to the horizon. A sort of radiant geography of which he was the center. A perilous mirage. Imagine what must have been the haze of such a vision, not led up to, not attained to as by the gradual steps of a ladder, but reached without transition and without previous warning. A man going to sleep in a mole's burrow and awakening on the top of the Strausberg steeple. Such was the state of Gwynnplain. Giddiness is a dangerous kind of glare, particularly that which bears you at once towards the day and towards the night, forming two whirlwinds, one opposed to the other. He saw too much and not enough. He saw all and nothing. His state was what the author of this book has somewhere expressed as the blind man dazzled. Gwynnplain, left by himself, began to walk with long strides. A bubbling proceeds an explosion. 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 cask. I am a marquee, and I have a plume. I am a pier, 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 surf, baser than the serving man, lower than the felon, lower than the slave, at a 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 ineffacable 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 forever. Behold me, O Lord. I shall have a scarlet robe. I shall have an earl's cornet on my head. I shall assist in 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 fates. I will make laws. I shall have the choice of joys and pleasures. And the vagabond gwindling, 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 Gwyn Plain, who had been a hero and perhaps had not ceased to be one, moral greatness gave way to material splendor, 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 Gwyn Plain by the wholesome restraints of misfortune, took tumultuous possession of his generous heart. And from what had disarisen? From the discovery of a parchment in a wave drifted by the sea. Conscience may be violated by a chance attack. Gwyn Plain drank in great droughts 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'd always vaguely desired this. His eyes had always turned towards the great. To watch is to wish. The eglet is not born in the airy 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. Gwyn Plain 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 caribdis in poverty and a skilla 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 true, 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, when Plain had recovered himself, the deep love in his nature had resisted it. But the storm, having weirded 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 did 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 retro-session, the earth which refused him a shelter, the sky which refused him a star, solitude without pity, security 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 right, 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 at the load, went hired and exhausted, thus rendering himself an easier prey to the attacks on his weakness and, as it were, himself unmuscling the shadowy monsters and 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 pygmy and stature, had been a colossus in soul. This wind-plane, 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 aggrandizement. A sudden growth disturbs the system and produces fever. In Gwyn-plane'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 Gwyn-planes 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 mount-a-bank 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 Gwyn-plane. He lost himself in fantastic dreams. He saw visions of magnificence, unknown forms of solemn grandeur moved and missed 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 had he 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 cornets, studied vaguely the hieroglyphics of the emblazement, felt the velvet of the walls moved to the chairs, turned over the parchment, read the names, spelt out the titles, Doxton, Humble, Groomdraith, Hunkerville, Clan Charlie, compared the wax the impressions 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 eruption 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 Gwyn Plain. And Dia said the light. End of Section 80 Recording by Ecological Humanist EcologicalHumanist.wordpress.com Section 81 of The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo Part 2 Book VI Chapter 1 What the misanthrope said. After Ursus had seen Gwyn Plain thrust within the gates of Southwick 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 reopen so soon. They are tongue-tied by their stagnation and 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-century 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 Gwynne Plain 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 Tarenzo Field. The lanes in the neighborhood of the fairground 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 harboring 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 into 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, white, is the same as the queen. A sacred effigy, devil, take it a sacred effigy. Have we a queen yes or no? Then respect her vertigris. 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 lord's spiritual and temporal. Oh, so Gwyn Plain 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 criticise 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 sergeant of the coiff. They pluck out your crimes, those clever fellows. Imprison 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 blackards? Didn't I brood over them when they were young? Didn't I draw them along with my harness? Pretty fountains 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 for sooth 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 idle. 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 what-and-take 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. It was impossible that it was a nightmare, that a daydream was playing me a trick. But no, nothing could be truer. It is all clear. Gwyn Plain 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, Gwyn Plain. And see, I am rid of both. Two birds killed with one stone. Because Daya will die now that she can no longer see Gwyn Plain. For she sees him, the idiot. She will have no object in life. She will say, what am I to do in the world? Goodbye to the devil with both of them. I always hated the creatures. Die, Daya. I am quite comfortable. End of Section 81. Recording by John Travidic. Section 82 of The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo. Part 2 Book VI. Chapter 2. What He Did. He returned to the Tadcaster Inn. It struck half past six. It was a little before twilight. Master Nicholas 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. Wow! he cried. Well, what? Is Gwyn Plain 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 tavernkeeper with a loud chuckle. Then he went up to the first floor, opened the window next to the sign of the inn, lent over towards the placard about Gwyn Plain, the Laughing Man, and the bill of chaos vanquished. Unnailed the one, tore down the other, put both under his arm, and descended. Master Nicholas followed him with his eyes. Why do you unhook that? Ursus burst into a second fit of laughter. Why do you laugh, said the tavernkeeper? I am re-entering private life. Master Nicholas understood and gave an order to his lieutenant, the boy Govacom, 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. Daer was asleep. She was on her bed dressed as usual, accepting that the body of her gown was loosened as when she was taking her siesta. Near her Venus and Phoebe 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 goddess's gauze, which was a sign of deep discouragement, they had remained in their drugged petticoats and their dress of coarse cloth. Ursus looked at Daer. She is rehearsing for a longer sleep, murmured he. Then, addressing Phoebe and Venus, 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 Gwyn Plain. Gwyn Plain is clean-gone. Then he looked at Daer again. What a blow to her this will be. It will be like blowing out a candle. He inflated his cheeks. Puth! Nothing more. Then, with a little dry laugh, losing Gwyn Plain, she loses all. It would be just as if I were to lose Homo, it would be worse. She will feel more lonely than anyone 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 Daer. She will catch cold. You have unleashed 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 Gwyn Plain, good night, Daer. How well all has been arranged. Gwyn Plain imprisoned Daer in the cemetery. They will be vis-a-vis. A dance of death. Two destinies going off the stage at once. Pack up the dresses, fasten the valace. For valace read coffin. It was just what was best for them both. Daer without eyes, Gwyn Plain without a face. On high the Almighty will restore sight to Daer and beauty to Gwyn Plain. Death puts things to rights. All will be well. Phoebe, Venus, 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. Tara Tantara is dead. Daer sleeps on. She does well. If I were her I would never wake. Oh! she will soon fall asleep again. A sky-lark like her takes very little killing. This comes of meddling with politics. What a lesson! Governments are right. Gwyn Plain to the sheriff. Daer 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 Daer. 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 mage-servant 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. Terpe Sennilis Amor. I will follow my way alone with Homo. How astonished Homo will be. Where is Gwyn Plain? Where is Daer? O comrade, here we are once more alone together. Plague, take it under-lighted. Their bucolic were an encumbrance. O that scamp Gwyn Plain who is never coming back, he has left us stuck here. I say, all right, and now to Daer'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. Daer 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. Daer called, Phoebe, Venus, it must be the time for the performance. I think I have been asleep a long time. Come and dress me. Neither Phoebe nor Venus moved. Meanwhile, the ineffable blind look of Daer's eyes met those of Ursus. He started. Well, he cried. What are you about? Venus, Phoebe, did 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? Phoebe, dress there. Venus, take your tambourine. Phoebe was obedient, Venus 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. Phoebe took down the costume and Venus the tambourine. Phoebe began to dress daer. Ursus let down the door curtain of the women's room and from behind the curtain continued, Look there, green plain. The court is already more than half full of people. They are in heaps and the passages. What a crowd! And you say that Phoebe and Venus look as if they did not see them. How stupid the gypsies are! What fools they are in Egypt! Yet don't lift the curtain from the door. Be decent, daer is dressing. He paused and suddenly they heard an exclamation. How beautiful daer is! It was the voice of Gwyn Plain. Phoebe and Venus started and turned round. It was the voice of Gwyn Plain 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 Gwyn Plain, Angel! Then he replied in his own voice, Daer and Angel, you are a full Gwyn Plain. No mammotha can fly except the bats. And he added, Look here, Gwyn Plain, 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 Gwyn Plain imitating his step so that Daer could hear it. In the court he addressed the boy whom the incurrences 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. Goverkin was grateful for his munificence. Ursus whispered in his ear, Boy, go into the yard, Jump, dance, knock, ball, whistle, Coo, nay, applaud, stamp your feet, Burst out laughing, break something! Master Nicholas 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 Venus played the tambourine. Ursus went on, They are his dressed, now we can begin. I am sorry they have admitted so many spectators, How thickly packed they are! Look when plain, what a mad mob it is! I will bet that today we shall make more money than we have ever done yet. Come, gypsies, play up both of you. Come here. Phoebe, take your clarion. Good. Venus, drum on your tambourine. Fling it up and catch it again. Phoebe, 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 bourguin plain! He interrupted himself. Gwyn Plane helped 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. Gwyn Plane do not draw the curtain until the performance begins. We are not alone. You two come out in front. Music, ladies. Turn, turn, turn. A pretty audience we have. The dregs of the people. Good heavens. The two gypsies, stupidly obedient, placed themselves in their usual corners of the platform. Their nurses 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. Anyone 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 and 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 Thayer. Thayer was listening. On his part the boy exerted himself to the utmost. Venus and Phoebe trumpeted conscientiously and took turns with the tambourine. Master Nicholas, 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 tavernkeeper growled out, What insanity! And he was serious as a man might well be who has the fear of the law before him. Govacom, 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, Gwyn Plain, 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 neighbour's 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 were 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 Vanquist was announced in the playbill, we will not play Ursus Rersus. There will be something gained in that. What an uproar! Oh, 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 peace. I'm going to address them. Gwyn Plain, draw the curtain a little aside. Gentlemen! Here Ursus addressed himself with a shrill and feeble voice. Down with that old foal! Then he answered in his own voice. It seems that the mob insult me. Cicero is right. 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. Gwyn Plain, look at that skull grinding her teeth down there. Ursus made a pause, in which he placed a gnashing of his teeth. Homo provoked at it a second, and Govacom 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, Gwyn Plain, 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, Grumble! Then he continued. I respect my audience. Grumble is an epiphenoma, 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 among 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 treaties on the walking of animals. There are those amongst you who have but two shirts, one on his back and the other at the pawnbrokers. 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 begadom. 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 apologise 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. Oh, gentlemen, browse! Science is not worth a mouthful of anything nice. I had rather eat a sir-line of beef than know what they call the visois 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, Gwyn Plain is an artist. He groaned again, grumple! And resumed, grumple again it is an objection, all the same I pass it over. Near Gwyn Plain, ladies and gentlemen, 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 majesties. Homo is a mine of deep and superior talent. Be attentive and watch. You are going to set Homo play as well as Gwyn Plain, 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, Sylvainy Sunt Consulidigna. Two artists are well worth one console. All right. Someone 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. Garula Perakula says juvenile. 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 apostrophised 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 neither 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 characterises 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. Everyone endures it. Everyone 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 sives. 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 dropped 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, Gwyn Plain? How well may we estimate the ills which England has suffered for the last forty years with irritable and malicious spirits? The ancient Britons were warlike. These are melancholy and learned. They glory in despising the law and condemning 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 gypsies were still. Ursus took down his instrument, executed his prelude, and said in a low tone, Alas, Gwyn Plain, 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 Dayer made her appearance and in her voice so tremulous and heavenly invoked Gwyn Plain. 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 Dayer. Then calling all his art to his aid and copying Gwyn Plain'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 gypsies looked for Gwyn Plain frightened at hearing without seeing him. Govacom 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. Phoebe and Venus being automatons of which Ursus pulled the strings rattled their instruments composed of copper and ashes' 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. Gwyn Plain may perhaps return to-morrow. It is useless to kill Dayer directly. I can explain matters to you. He took off his wig and wiped his forehead. I am a ventriloquist of genius, mylady. What talent I displayed! I have equaled Brabant, the ingestremist of France as the first of France. Dayer is convinced that Gwyn Plain is here. Ursus said, Dayer, where is Gwyn Plain? Ursus started and turned round. Dayer 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? End of Section 82. Recording by John Trevidic Section 83 of The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo Part 2 Book VI 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 Phoebe and Venus who had eyes, although he had not deceived Dayer who was blind. It was because Phoebe and Venus saw with their eyes while Dayer saw with her heart. He could not utter a word. He thought to himself, Boss in lingua, 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 Dayer. 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 Nicholas in the yard with a candle in his hand beckoning to him. Master Nicholas had not assisted at the end of the phantom comedy played by Ursus. Someone had happened to knock at the door of the inn. Master Nicholas had gone to open it. There had been two knocks and twice Master Nicholas had disappeared. Ursus, absorbed by his hundred-voiced monologue, had not observed his absence. On the mute call of Master Nicholas Ursus descended. He approached the tavernkeeper. Ursus put his finger on his lips. Master Nicholas 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 tavernkeeper silently opened the door of the lower room of the tavern. Master Nicholas 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 tavernkeeper pushed the door behind him and shut it in the face of the inquisitive Govacom. Master Nicholas placed the candle on the table. A low whispering dialogue began. Master Ursus, Master Nicholas, I understand at last, nonsense. You wished the poor blonde 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, someone knocked at the door of the tavern. Someone 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? Someone 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? Someone knocked a second time. Who, the same person? No, another. Someone else to speak to you? Someone who said nothing. I like that better. I do not. Explain yourself, Master Nicholas. Guess who called the first time? I have no leisure to be an edipus. It was the proprietor of the circus. Over the way, over the way. Wince comes all that fearful noise. Well? Well, Master Osis, he makes you a proposal. A proposal? Our proposal. Why? Because? You have an advantage over me, Master Nicholas. Just now you sold my enigma and now I cannot understand yours. The proprietor of the circus commissioned me to tell you that he had seen the courtage of police pass this morning, and that he, the proprietor of the circus, wishing to prove that he is your friend, offers to buy a view for fifty pounds, ready money, your caravan, the green box, your two horses, your trumpets with the women who blow them, your play with the blind girl who sings in it, your wolf and yourself. Versus smiled a haughty smile. Innkeeper tell the proprietor of the circus that Gwynn Plain 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 Nicholas said, the man who knocked a 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 Gwynn Plain. End of section 83, recording by John Trabivik.