a common athlete, a picker up of pence from the chinks in the pavement,

and Dea would perhaps not have had bread every day. It was with deep and

tender pride that he felt himself the protector of the helpless and

heavenly creature. Night, solitude, nakedness, weakness, ignorance,

hunger, and thirst--seven yawning jaws of misery--were raised around

her, and he was the St. George fighting the dragon. He triumphed over

poverty. How? By his deformity. By his deformity he was useful, helpful,

victorious, great. He had but to show himself, and money poured in. He

was a master of crowds, the sovereign of the mob. He could do everything

for Dea. Her wants he foresaw; her desires, her tastes, her fancies, in

the limited sphere in which wishes are possible to the blind, he

fulfilled. Gwynplaine and Dea were, as we have already shown, Providence

to each other. He felt himself raised on her wings; she felt herself

carried in his arms. To protect the being who loves you, to give what

she requires to her who shines on you as your star, can anything be

sweeter? Gwynplaine possessed this supreme happiness, and he owed it to

his deformity. His deformity had raised him above all. By it he had

gained the means of life for himself and others; by it he had gained

independence, liberty, celebrity, internal satisfaction and pride. In

his deformity he was inaccessible. The Fates could do nothing beyond

this blow in which they had spent their whole force, and which he had

turned into a triumph. This lowest depth of misfortune had become the

summit of Elysium. Gwynplaine was imprisoned in his deformity, but with

Dea. And this was, as we have already said, to live in a dungeon of

paradise. A wall stood between them and the living world. So much the

better. This wall protected as well as enclosed them. What could affect

Dea, what could affect Gwynplaine, with such a fortress around them? To

455

The Man Who Laughs