To know that the future husband of her sister was deformed, sufficed the queen.  In what manner Gwynplaine was deformed, and by what kind of ugliness, Barkilphedro 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 plan were in the secret of what was taking place.  As to Barkilphedro, 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, ’tis joy.

He had had the delight of being the first to taste the contents of Hardquanonne’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.  Any one 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 Barkilphedro 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 gnaw one’s chain—­how tragic and appropriate the expression!  A villain gnawing at his own powerlessness!

Barkilphedro 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 thenceforth 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 Hardquanonne came, driven from wave to wave, into Barkilphedro’s hands.  There is in the unknown an indescribable fealty which seems to be at the beck and call of evil.  Barkilphedro, assisted by two chance witnesses, disinterested jurors of the Admiralty, uncorked the flask, found the parchment, unfolded, read it.  What words could express his devilish delight!