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them. The cries came from far and near, from top to bottom, from the
upper boxes to the pit. The whole was an uproar, the detail was a cry.
Ursus clapped his hands, stamped his feet, threw his voice to the end of
the court, and then made it come from underground. It was both stormy
and familiar. It passed from a murmur to a noise, from a noise to a
tumult, from a tumult to a tempest. He was himself, any, every one else.
Alone, and polyglot. As there are optical illusions, there are also
auricular illusions. That which Proteus did to sight Ursus did to
hearing. Nothing could be more marvellous than his facsimile of
multitude. From time to time he opened the door of the women's apartment
and looked at Dea. Dea was listening. On his part the boy exerted
himself to the utmost. Vinos and Fibi trumpeted conscientiously, and
took turns with the tambourine. Master Nicless, the only spectator,
quietly made himself the same explanation as they did--that Ursus was
gone mad; which was, for that matter, but another sad item added to his
misery. The good tavern-keeper growled out, "What insanity!" And he was
serious as a man might well be who has the fear of the law before him.
Govicum, delighted at being able to help in making a noise, exerted
himself almost as much as Ursus. It amused him, and, moreover, it earned
him pence.
Homo was pensive.
In the midst of the tumult Ursus now and then uttered such words as
these:--"Just as usual, Gwynplaine. There is a cabal against us. Our
rivals are undermining our success. Tumult is the seasoning of triumph.
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