hand. All seemed ready made. The fragments of the event which was to

satisfy his hate were spread out within his reach. He had nothing to do

but to pick them up and fit them together--a repair which it was an

amusement to execute. He was the artificer.

Gwynplaine! He knew the name. Masca ridens. Like every one else, he

had been to see the Laughing Man. He had read the sign nailed up against

the Tadcaster Inn as one reads a play-bill that attracts a crowd. He had

noted it. He remembered it directly in its most minute details; and, in

any case, it was easy to compare them with the original. That notice, in

the electrical summons which arose in his memory, appeared in the depths

of his mind, and placed itself by the side of the parchment signed by

the shipwrecked crew, like an answer following a question, like the

solution following an enigma; and the lines--"Here is to be seen

Gwynplaine, deserted at the age of ten, on the 29th of January, 1690, on

the coast at Portland"--suddenly appeared to his eyes in the splendour

of an apocalypse. His vision was the light of Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,

outside a booth. Here was the destruction of the edifice which made the

existence of Josiana. A sudden earthquake. The lost child was found.

There was a Lord Clancharlie; David Dirry-Moir was nobody. Peerage,

riches, power, rank--all these things left Lord David and entered

Gwynplaine. All the castles, parks, forests, town houses, palaces,

domains, Josiana included, belonged to Gwynplaine. And what a climax for

Josiana! What had she now before her? Illustrious and haughty, a player;

beautiful, a monster. Who could have hoped for this? The truth was that

the joy of Barkilphedro had become enthusiastic. The most hateful

combinations are surpassed by the infernal munificence of the

651

The Man Who Laughs