What! there, where this woman dwelt, in the regal region of

irresponsible splendour, and in the power of full, free will; where

there were princes, and she could take a prince; nobles, and she could

take a noble; where there were men handsome, charming, magnificent, and

she could take an Adonis: whom did she take? Gnafron! She could choose

from the midst of meteors and thunders, the mighty six-winged seraphim,

and she chose the larva crawling in the slime. On one side were

highnesses and peers, all grandeur, all opulence, all glory; on the

other, a mountebank. The mountebank carried it! What kind of scales

could there be in the heart of this woman? By what measure did she weigh

her love? She took off her ducal coronet, and flung it on the platform

of a clown! She took from her brow the Olympian aureola, and placed it

on the bristly head of a gnome! The world had turned topsy-turvy. The

insects swarmed on high, the stars were scattered below, whilst the

wonder-stricken Gwynplaine, overwhelmed by a falling ruin of light, and

lying in the dust, was enshrined in a glory. One all-powerful,

revolting against beauty and splendour, gave herself to the damned of

night; preferred Gwynplaine to Antinoüs; excited by curiosity, she

entered the shadows, and descending within them, and from this

abdication of goddess-ship was rising, crowned and prodigious, the

royalty of the wretched. "You are hideous. I love you." These words

touched Gwynplaine in the ugly spot of pride. Pride is the heel in which

all heroes are vulnerable. Gwynplaine was flattered in his vanity as a

monster. He was loved for his deformity. He, too, was the exception, as

much and perhaps more than the Jupiters and the Apollos. He felt

superhuman, and so much a monster as to be a god. Fearful bewilderment!

559

The Man Who Laughs