Such a struggle was Gwynplaine’s.  For an instant, which he felt to be a solemn one, by a prodigious intensity of will, but for not much longer than a flash of lightning lasts, he had thrown over his brow the dark veil of his soul—­he held in suspense his incurable laugh.  From that face upon which it had been carved he had withdrawn the joy.  Now it was nothing but terrible.

“Who is this man?” exclaimed all.

That forest of hair, those dark hollows under the brows, the deep gaze of eyes which they could not see, that head, on the wild outlines of which light and darkness mingled weirdly, were a wonder indeed.  It was beyond all understanding; much as they had heard of him, the sight of Gwynplaine was a terror.  Even those who expected much found their expectations surpassed.  It was as though on the mountain reserved for the gods, during the banquet on a serene evening, the whole of the all-powerful body being gathered together, the face of Prometheus, mangled by the vulture’s beak, should have suddenly appeared before them, like a blood-coloured moon on the horizon.  Olympus looking on Caucasus!  What a vision!  Old and young, open-mouthed with surprise, fixed their eyes upon Gwynplaine.

An old man, respected by the whole House, who had seen many men and many things, and who was intended for a dukedom—­Thomas, Earl of Wharton—­rose in terror.

“What does all this mean?” he cried.  “Who has brought this man into the House?  Let him be put out.”

And addressing Gwynplaine haughtily,—­

“Who are you?  Whence do you come?”

Gwynplaine answered,—­

“Out of the depths.”

And folding his arms, he looked at the lords.

“Who am I?  I am wretchedness.  My lords, I have a word to say to you.”

A shudder ran through the House.  Then all was silence.  Gwynplaine continued,—­

“My lords, you are highly placed.  It is well.  We must believe that God has His reasons that it should be so.  You have power, opulence, pleasure, the sun ever shining in your zenith; authority unbounded, enjoyment without a sting, and a total forgetfulness of others.  So be it.  But there is something below you—­above you, it may be.  My lords, I bring you news—­news of the existence of mankind.”

Assemblies are like children.  A strange occurrence is as a Jack-in-the-Box to them.  It frightens them; but they like it.  It is as if a spring were touched and a devil jumps up.  Mirabeau, who was also deformed, was a case in point in France.

Gwynplaine felt within himself, at that moment, a strange elevation.  In addressing a body of men, one’s foot seems to rest on them; to rest, as it were, on a pinnacle of souls—­on human hearts, that quiver under one’s heel.  Gwynplaine was no longer the man who had been, only the night before, almost mean.  The fumes of the sudden elevation which had disturbed him had cleared off and become transparent, and in the state in which Gwynplaine had been seduced by a vanity he now saw but a duty.  That which had at first lessened now elevated him.  He was illuminated by one of those great flashes which emanate from duty.