Does it not seem that the law and the will of nature would have dictated Gwynplaine’s headlong rush to throw himself upon life, happiness, love regained?  So they would, except in some case of deep terror such as his.  But he who comes forth, shattered in nerve and uncertain of his way, from a series of catastrophes, each one like a fresh betrayal, is prudent even in his joy; hesitates, lest he should bear the fatality of which he has been the victim to those whom he loves; feels that some evil contagion may still hang about him, and advances towards happiness with wary steps.  The gates of Paradise reopen; but before he enters he examines his ground.

Gwynplaine, staggering under the weight of his emotion, looked around him, while the wolf went and lay down silently by his chain.

CHAPTER II.

BARKILPHEDRO, HAVING AIMED AT THE EAGLE, BRINGS DOWN THE DOVE.

The step of the little van was down—­the door ajar—­there was no one inside.  The faint light which broke through the pane in front sketched the interior of the caravan vaguely in melancholy chiaroscuro.  The inscriptions of Ursus, gloryifying the grandeur of Lords, showed distinctly on the worn-out boards, which were both the wall without and the wainscot within.  On a nail, near the door, Gwynplaine saw his esclavine and his cape hung up, as they hang up the clothes of a corpse in a dead-house.  Just then he had neither waistcoat nor coat on.

Behind the van something was laid out on the deck at the foot of the mast, which was lighted by the lantern.  It was a mattress, of which he could make out one corner.  On this mattress some one was probably lying, for he could see a shadow move.

Some one was speaking.  Concealed by the van, Gwynplaine listened.  It was Ursus’s voice.  That voice, so harsh in its upper, so tender in its lower, pitch; that voice, which had so often upbraided Gwynplaine, and which had taught him so well, had lost the life and clearness of its tone.  It was vague and low, and melted into a sigh at the end of every sentence.  It bore but a confused resemblance to his natural and firm voice of old.  It was the voice of one in whom happiness is dead.  A voice may become a ghost.

He seemed to be engaged in monologue rather than in conversation.  We are already aware, however, that soliloquy was a habit with him.  It was for that reason that he passed for a madman.

Gwynplaine held his breath, so as not to lose a word of what Ursus said, and this was what he heard.

“This is a very dangerous kind of craft, because there are no bulwarks to it.  If we were to slip, there is nothing to prevent our going overboard.  If we have bad weather, we shall have to take her below, and that will be dreadful.  An awkward step, a fright, and we shall have a rupture of the aneurism.  I have seen instances of it.  O my God! what is to become of us?  Is she asleep?  Yes.