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 coronets, studied vaguely the hieroglyphics of the emblazonment, felt the velvet of the walls, moved the chairs, turned over the parchments, read the names, spelt out the titles, Buxton, Homble, Grundraith, Hunkerville, Clancharlie; compared the wax, the impression, 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 irruption 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 Gwynplaine.

And Dea! said the light.

BOOK THE SIXTH.

URSUS UNDER DIFFERENT ASPECTS.

CHAPTER I.

WHAT THE MISANTHROPE SAID.

After Ursus had seen Gwynplaine thrust within the gates of Southwark 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 re-open so soon.  They are tongue-tied by their stagnation in 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