The waves to which this flask had been flung watching over that past which contained a future; the whirlwind breathing kindly on it; the currents directing the frail waif 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 worldwide shadows ending in radiance; darkness employed to bring to light the star of truth; the exile consoled in his tomb; the heir 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 Barkilphedro 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 Gwynplaine.  He fancied that it had been effected for Barkilphedro, and that he was well worth the trouble.  Thus it is ever with Satan.

Moreover, ere we feel astonished that a waif 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 coast of Morbihan, between the Isle de Croix, the extremity of the peninsula de Gavres, and the Rocher des Errants, the fishermen of Port Louis found a Roman amphora of the fourth century, covered with arabesques by the incrustations of the sea.  That amphora had been floating fifteen hundred years.

Whatever appearance of indifference Barkilphedro tried to exhibit, his wonder had equalled 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—­a repair which it was an amusement to execute.  He was the artificer.

Gwynplaine!  He knew the name. Masca ridens.  Like every one else, he had been to see the Laughing Man.  He had read the sign nailed up against the Tadcaster Inn as one reads a play-bill 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, in 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 enigma; and the lines—­“Here is to be seen Gwynplaine, deserted at the age of ten, on the 29th of January, 1690, on the coast at Portland”—­suddenly appeared to his eyes in the splendour of an apocalypse.  His vision was the light of Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, 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 Clancharlie; David Dirry-Moir was