# The Man Who Laughs (Estes and Lauriat 1869)/Chapter 57

CHAPTER XII.
URSUS THE POET DRAGS ON URSUS THE PHILOSOPHER.
JUST then Dea entered. Gwynplaine looked at her, and saw her only. Such is love; one may be carried away for a moment by the importunity of some other idea, but the beloved one enters, and everything that does not pertain to her immediately fades away, without her dreaming perhaps that she is effacing all the rest of the world from one's mind. Let us mention a circumstance. In "Chaos Vanquished" the word monstro, addressed to Gwynplaine, displeased Dea. Sometimes, with the smattering of Spanish, which every one possessed at the period, she took it into her head to replace it by quiero, which signifies, "I wish it." Ursus tolerated, although not without considerable impatience, this alteration in his text. He might have said to Dea, as in our own day Moessard said to Vissot, "Tu manques de respect au repertoire." "The Laughing Man." This was the form Gwynplaine's celebrity had assumed. His name, Gwynplaine, but little known at any time, was hidden under this nickname, as his face was hidden under its ghastly grin. His popularity was like his visage,—a mask. His name, however, appeared on a large placard in front of the Green Box, which bore the following notice composed by Ursus:—
"Do not fail to see Gwynplaine, who was deserted at the age of ten, on the night of the 29th of January, 1690, by villainous Comprachicos, on the coast of Portland. The little boy has grown up, and is now known as
"THE LAUGHING MAN."
​The existence of these mountebanks resembled the life of lepers in a leper-house as well as of the blessed in one of the Pleiades. Every day there was a sudden transition from the noisy exhibition outside to the most complete seclusion. Every evening they made their exit from the world. They were like the dead, vanishing on condition of being re-born next day. A comedian is a sort of revolving light, appearing one moment, disappearing the next, and existing for the public only as a phantom, as his life circles round. To exhibition succeeded isolation. As soon as the performance was finished, and even while the spectators were dispersing, and their murmur of satisfaction was still heard in the streets, the Green Box drew in its platform, as a fortress does its drawbridge, and all communication with mankind was cut off. On one side, the universe; on the other, the van; but the van contained liberty, clear consciences, courage, devotion, innocence, happiness, love,—all the heavenly constellations. Clear-sighted blindness and fondly beloved deformity sat side by side,—hand pressing hand, brow touching brow,—and whispered to each other, intoxicated with love.
The compartment in the middle of the van served two purposes,—for the public it was a stage; for the actors, a dining-room. Ursus, ever delighting in comparisons, profited by this diversity of uses to liken the central compartment in the Green Box to the arradach in an Abyssinian hut. Ursus counted the receipts, then they supped.
Love idealizes everything. When persons are in love, eating and drinking together afford opportunities for many sweet promiscuous touches, by which a mouthful becomes a kiss. The two drank ale or wine from the same glass, as they might drink dew out of the same ​lily. Two souls in love are as full of grace as two birds. Gwynplaine waited on Dea, cut her bread, poured out her drink, approaching as close to her as possible.
"Hum!" cried Ursus, and turned away, his scolding melting into a smile.
The wolf supped under the table, heedless of everything which did not actually affect his bone. Fibi and Vinos shared the repast, but gave no trouble. These vagabonds, who were only half civilized, and as uncouth as ever, conversed with each other in the Gipsy tongue. At length Dea re-entered the women's apartment with Fibi and Vinos. Ursus chained Homo under the Green Box; Gwynplaine looked after the horses,—the lover becoming a groom, like one of Homer's heroes or Charlemagne's paladins. By midnight all were sound asleep, except the wolf, who, alive to his responsibility, now and then opened an eye. The next morning they met again, and breakfasted together, generally on ham and tea. Tea was introduced into England in 1668. In the middle of the day Dea, after the Spanish fashion, took a siesta, acting on the advice of Ursus, who considered her delicate, and slept several hours, while Gwynplaine and Ursus did all the little jobs of work, in doors and out, which their wandering life necessitated.
Gwynplaine rarely wandered far from the Green Box, except on unfrequented roads and in solitary places. In cities he went out only at night, disguised in a large slouched hat, so as not to show his face in the street. His face was seen uncovered only on the stage.
The Green Box had frequented cities but little. Gwynplaine at twenty-four had never seen any town larger than the Cinque Ports. His fame, however, was increasing. It had begun to rise above the populace, and to percolate into higher ground. Among the many who were fond of, and ran after, foreign curiosities and ​prodigies, it was known that there was somewhere in existence, leading a wandering life, now here, now there, an extraordinary monster. They talked about him, they sought him, they wondered where he was. The laughing man was becoming decidedly famous. A certain lustre, too, was reflected from him upon "Chaos Vanquished." So much so that one day Ursus, being ambitious, exclaimed,—
"We must go to London."
END OF VOL. I.