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of Lord Northampton, held his sides; the Lord Chancellor bent down his
head, probably to conceal his inclination to laugh; and, at the bar,
that statue of respect, the Usher of the Black Rod, was laughing also.
Gwynplaine, become pallid, had folded his arms; and, surrounded by all
those faces, young and old, in which had burst forth this grand Homeric
jubilee; in that whirlwind of clapping hands, of stamping feet, and of
hurrahs; in that mad buffoonery, of which he was the centre; in that
splendid overflow of hilarity; in the midst of that unmeasured gaiety,
he felt that the sepulchre was within him. All was over. He could no
longer master the face which betrayed nor the audience which insulted
him.
That eternal and fatal law by which the grotesque is linked with the
sublime--by which the laugh re-echoes the groan, parody rides behind
despair, and seeming is opposed to being--had never found more terrible
expression. Never had a light more sinister illumined the depths of
human darkness.
Gwynplaine was assisting at the final destruction of his destiny by a
burst of laughter. The irremediable was in this. Having fallen, we can
raise ourselves up; but, being pulverized, never. And the insult of
their sovereign mockery had reduced him to dust. From thenceforth
nothing was possible. Everything is in accordance with the scene. That
which was triumph in the Green Box was disgrace and catastrophe in the
House of Lords. What was applause there, was insult here. He felt
something like the reverse side of his mask. On one side of that mask he
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