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"Non-content," said he.
Every face was turned towards him. Gwynplaine remained standing. The
branches of candles, placed on each side of the throne, lighted up his
features, and marked them against the darkness of the august chamber in
the relief with which a mask might show against a background of smoke.
Gwynplaine had made that effort over himself which, it may be
remembered, was possible to him in extremity. By a concentration of will
equal to that which would be needed to cow a tiger, he had succeeded in
obliterating for a moment the fatal grin upon his face. For an instant
he no longer laughed. This effort could not last long. Rebellion against
that which is our law or our fatality must be short-lived; at times the
waters of the sea resist the power of gravitation, swell into a
waterspout and become a mountain, but only on the condition of falling
back again.
Such a struggle was Gwynplaine's. For an instant, which he felt to be a
solemn one, by a prodigious intensity of will, but for not much longer
than a flash of lightning lasts, he had thrown over his brow the dark
veil of his soul--he held in suspense his incurable laugh. From that
face upon which it had been carved he had withdrawn the joy. Now it was
nothing but terrible.
"Who is this man?" exclaimed all.
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