nse his incurable laugh. From that
face upon which it had been carved he had withdrawn the joy. Now it was
nothing but terrible.

"Who is this man?" exclaimed all.

That forest of hair, those dark hollows under the brows, the deep gaze
of eyes which they could not see, that head, on the wild outlines of
which light and darkness mingled weirdly, were a wonder indeed. It was
beyond all understanding; much as they had heard of him, the sight of
Gwynplaine was a terror. Even those who expected much found their
expectations surpassed. It was as though on the mountain reserved for
the gods, during the banquet on a serene evening, the whole of the
all-powerful body being gathered together, the face of Prometheus,
mangled by the vulture's beak, should have suddenly appeared before
them, like a blood-coloured moon on the horizon. Olympus looking on
Caucasus! What a vision! Old and young, open-mouthed with surprise,
fixed their eyes upon Gwynplaine.

An old man, respected by the whole House, who had seen many men and many
things, and who was intended for a dukedom--Thomas, Earl of
Wharton--rose in terror.

"What does all this mean?" he cried. "Who has brought this man into the
House? Let him be put out."

And addressing Gwynplaine haughtily,--

"Who are you? Whence do you come?"

Gwynplaine answered,--

"Out of the depths."

And folding his arms, he looked at the lords.

"Who am I? I am wretchedness. My lords, I have a word to say to you."

A shudder ran through the House. Then all was silence. Gwynplaine
continued,--

"My lords, you are highly placed. It is well. We must believe that God
has His reasons that it should be so. You have power, opulence,
pleasure, the sun ever shining in your zenith; authority unbounded,
enjoyment without a sting, and a total forgetfulness of others. So be
it. But there is something below you--above you, it may be. My lords, I
bring you news--news of the existence of mankind."

Assemblies are like children. A strange occurrence is as a
Jack-in-the-Box to them. It frightens them; but they like it. It is as
if a spring were touched and a devil jumps up. Mirabeau, who was also
deformed, was a case in point in France.

Gwynplaine felt within himself, at that moment, a strange elevation. In
addressing a body of men, one's foot seems to rest on them; to rest, as
it were, on a pinnacle of souls--on human hearts, that quiver under
one's heel. Gwynplaine was no longer the man who had been,