Then he leaned over Dea.

“She will catch cold; you have unlaced her bodice too low.  There is a proverb,—­

  “’Though April skies be bright,
  Keep all your wrappers tight.’”

Seeing a pin shining on the floor, he picked it up and pinned up her sleeve.  Then he paced the Green Box, gesticulating.

“I am in full possession of my faculties.  I am lucid, quite lucid.  I consider this occurrence quite proper, and I approve of what has happened.  When she awakes I will explain everything to her clearly.  The catastrophe will not be long in coming.  No more Gwynplaine.  Good-night, Dea.  How well all has been arranged!  Gwynplaine in prison, Dea in the cemetery, they will be vis-a-vis!  A dance of death!  Two destinies going off the stage at once.  Pack up the dresses.  Fasten the valise.  For valise, read coffin.  It was just what was best for them both.  Dea without eyes, Gwynplaine without a face.  On high the Almighty will restore sight to Dea and beauty to Gwynplaine.  Death puts things to rights.  All will be well.  Fibi, Vinos, hang up your tambourines on the nail.  Your talents for noise will go to rust, my beauties; no more playing, no more trumpeting ‘Chaos Vanquished’ is vanquished.  ’The Laughing Man’ is done for.  ‘Taratantara’ is dead.  Dea sleeps on.  She does well.  If I were she I would never awake.  Oh! she will soon fall asleep again.  A skylark like her takes very little killing.  This comes of meddling with politics.  What a lesson!  Governments are right.  Gwynplaine to the sheriff.  Dea to the grave-digger.  Parallel cases!  Instructive symmetry!  I hope the tavern-keeper has barred the door.  We are going to die to-night quietly at home, between ourselves—­not I, nor Homo, but Dea.  As for me, I shall continue to roll on in the caravan.  I belong to the meanderings of vagabond life.  I shall dismiss these two women.  I shall not keep even one of them.  I have a tendency to become an old scoundrel.  A maidservant in the house of a libertine is like a loaf of bread on the shelf.  I decline the temptation.  It is not becoming at my age. Turpe senilis amor.  I will follow my way alone with Homo.  How astonished Homo will be!  Where is Gwynplaine?  Where is Dea?  Old comrade, here we are once more alone together.  Plague take it!  I’m delighted.  Their bucolics were an encumbrance.  Oh! that scamp Gwynplaine, who is never coming back.  He has left us stuck here.  I say ‘All right.’  And now ’tis Dea’s turn.  That won’t be long.  I like things to be done with.  I would not snap my fingers to stop her dying—­her dying, I tell you!  See, she awakes!”

Dea opened her eyelids; many blind persons shut them when they sleep.  Her sweet unwitting face wore all its usual radiance.

“She smiles,” whispered Ursus, “and I laugh.  That is as it should be.”

Dea called,—­

“Fibi!  Vinos!  It must be the time for the performance.  I think I have been asleep a long time.  Come and dress me.”