From 1680 to 1704 a great change had taken place.

It happened sometimes, in the year 1704, that as night fell on some little village on the coast, a great, heavy van, drawn by a pair of stout horses, made its entry.  It was like the shell of a vessel reversed—­the keel for a roof, the deck for a floor, placed on four wheels.  The wheels were all of the same size, and high as wagon wheels.  Wheels, pole, and van were all painted green, with a rhythmical gradation of shades, which ranged from bottle green for the wheels to apple green for the roofing.  This green colour had succeeded in drawing attention to the carriage, which was known in all the fair grounds as The Green Box.  The Green Box had but two windows, one at each extremity, and at the back a door with steps to let down.  On the roof, from a tube painted green like the rest, smoke arose.  This moving house was always varnished and washed afresh.  In front, on a ledge fastened to the van, with the window for a door, behind the horses and by the side of an old man who held the reins and directed the team, two gipsy women, dressed as goddesses, sounded their trumpets.  The astonishment with which the villagers regarded this machine was overwhelming.

This was the old establishment of Ursus, its proportions augmented by success, and improved from a wretched booth into a theatre.  A kind of animal, between dog and wolf, was chained under the van.  This was Homo.  The old coachman who drove the horses was the philosopher himself.

Whence came this improvement from the miserable hut to the Olympic caravan?

From this—­Gwynplaine had become famous.

It was with a correct scent of what would succeed amongst men that Ursus had said to Gwynplaine,—­

“They made your fortune.”

Ursus, it may be remembered, had made Gwynplaine his pupil.  Unknown people had worked upon his face; he, on the other hand, had worked on his mind, and behind this well-executed mask he had placed all that he could of thought.  So soon as the growth of the child had rendered him fitted for it, he had brought him out on the stage—­that is, he had produced him in front of the van.

The effect of his appearance had been surprising.  The passers-by were immediately struck with wonder.  Never had anything been seen to be compared to this extraordinary mimic of laughter.  They were ignorant how the miracle of infectious hilarity had been obtained.  Some believed it to be natural, others declared it to be artificial, and as conjecture was added to reality, everywhere, at every cross-road on the journey, in all the grounds of fairs and fetes, the crowd ran after Gwynplaine.  Thanks to this great attraction, there had come into the poor purse of the wandering group, first a rain of farthings, then of heavy pennies, and finally of shillings.  The curiosity of one place exhausted, they passed on to another.  Rolling does not enrich a stone but it enriches a caravan; and year by year, from city to city, with the increased growth of Gwynplaine’s person and of his ugliness, the fortune predicted by Ursus had come.