He dropt his oratorical tone, and resumed his usual voice.

“Close the curtains.  Let me breathe.  I have spoken like honey.  I have spoken well.  My words were like velvet; but they were useless.  I called them my lords and gentlemen.  What do you think of all this scum, Gwynplaine?  How well may we estimate the ills which England has suffered for the last forty years through the ill-temper of these irritable and malicious spirits!  The ancient Britons were warlike; these are melancholy and learned.  They glory in despising the laws and contemning royal authority.  I have done all that human eloquence can do.  I have been prodigal of metonymics, as gracious as the blooming cheek of youth.  Were they softened by them?  I doubt it.  What can affect a people who eat so extraordinarily, who stupefy themselves by tobacco so completely that their literary men often write their works with a pipe in their mouths?  Never mind.  Let us begin the play.”

The rings of the curtain were heard being drawn over the rod.  The tambourines of the gipsies were still.  Ursus took down his instrument, executed his prelude, and said in a low tone:  “Alas, Gwynplaine, how mysterious it is!” then he flung himself down with the wolf.

When he had taken down his instrument, he had also taken from the nail a rough wig which he had, and which he had thrown on the stage in a corner within his reach.  The performance of “Chaos Vanquished” took place as usual, minus only the effect of the blue light and the brilliancy of the fairies.  The wolf played his best.  At the proper moment Dea made her appearance, and, in her voice so tremulous and heavenly, invoked Gwynplaine.  She extended her arms, feeling for that head.

Ursus rushed at the wig, ruffled it, put it on, advanced softly, and holding his breath, his head bristled thus under the hand of Dea.

Then calling all his art to his aid, and copying Gwynplaine’s voice, he sang with ineffable love the response of the monster to the call of the spirit.  The imitation was so perfect that again the gipsies looked for Gwynplaine, frightened at hearing without seeing him.

Govicum, filled with astonishment, stamped, applauded, clapped his hands, producing an Olympian tumult, and himself laughed as if he had been a chorus of gods.  This boy, it must be confessed, developed a rare talent for acting an audience.

Fibi and Vinos, being automatons of which Ursus pulled the strings, rattled their instruments, composed of copper and ass’s skin—­the usual sign of the performance being over and of the departure of the people.

Ursus arose, covered with perspiration.  He said, in a low voice, to Homo, “You see it was necessary to gain time.  I think we have succeeded.  I have not acquitted myself badly—­I, who have as much reason as any one to go distracted.  Gwynplaine may perhaps return to-morrow.  It is useless to kill Dea directly.  I can explain matters to you.”