He perceived Ursus from afar.

“Well!” he cried.

“Well! what?”

“Is Gwynplaine coming back?  It is full time.  The public will soon be coming.  Shall we have the performance of ‘The Laughing Man’ this evening?”

“I am the laughing man,” said Ursus.

And he looked at the tavern-keeper with a loud chuckle.

Then he went up to the first floor, opened the window next to the sign of the inn, leant over towards the placard about Gwynplaine, the laughing man, and the bill of “Chaos Vanquished;” unnailed the one, tore down the other, put both under his arm, and descended.

Master Nicless followed him with his eyes.

“Why do you unhook that?”

Ursus burst into a second fit of laughter.

“Why do you laugh?” said the tavern-keeper.

“I am re-entering private life.”

Master Nicless understood, and gave an order to his lieutenant, the boy Govicum, to announce to every one who should come that there would be no performance that evening.  He took from the door the box made out of a cask, where they received the entrance money, and rolled it into a corner of the lower sitting-room.

A moment after, Ursus entered the Green Box.

He put the two signs away in a corner, and entered what he called the woman’s wing.

Dea was asleep.

She was on her bed, dressed as usual, excepting that the body of her gown was loosened, as when she was taking her siesta.

Near her Vinos and Fibi were sitting—­one on a stool, the other on the ground—­musing.  Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, they had not dressed themselves in their goddesses’ gauze, which was a sign of deep discouragement.  They had remained in their drugget petticoats and their dress of coarse cloth.

Ursus looked at Dea.

“She is rehearsing for a longer sleep,” murmured he.

Then, addressing Fibi and Vinos,—­

“You both know all.  The music is over.  You may put your trumpets into the drawer.  You did well not to equip yourselves as deities.  You look ugly enough as you are, but you were quite right.  Keep on your petticoats.  No performance to-night, nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow.  No Gwynplaine.  Gwynplaine is clean gone.”

Then he looked at Dea again.

“What a blow to her this will be!  It will be like blowing out a candle.”

He inflated his cheeks.

“Puff! nothing more.”

Then, with a little dry laugh,—­

“Losing Gwynplaine, she loses all.  It would be just as if I were to lose Homo.  It will be worse.  She will feel more lonely than any one else could.  The blind wade through more sorrow than we do.”

He looked out of the window at the end of the room.

“How the days lengthen!  It is not dark at seven o’clock.  Nevertheless we will light up.”

He struck the steel and lighted the lamp which hung from the ceiling of the Green Box.