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passes by. A funeral had followed the arrest of Gwynplaine. That proved
nothing. Post hoc, non propter hoc, etc. Ursus had begun to doubt.
Hope burns and glimmers over misery like naphtha over water. Its
hovering flame ever floats over human sorrow. Ursus had come to this
conclusion, "It is probable that it was Gwynplaine whom they buried, but
it is not certain. Who knows? Perhaps Gwynplaine is still alive."
Ursus bowed to the justice.
"
Honourable judge, I will go away, we will go away, all will go away, by
the Vograat of Rotterdam, to-day. I will sell the Green Box, the
horses, the trumpets, the gipsies. But I have a comrade, whom I cannot
leave behind--Gwynplaine."
"
Gwynplaine is dead," said a voice.
Ursus felt a cold sensation, such as is produced by a reptile crawling
over the skin. It was Barkilphedro who had just spoken.
The last gleam was extinguished. No more doubt now. Gwynplaine was dead.
A person in authority must know. This one looked ill-favoured enough to
do so.
Ursus bowed to him.
Master Nicless was a good-hearted man enough, but a dreadful coward.
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