The Man Who Laughs

by Victor Hugo

  While Ursus, addressing Homo, was looking down, Gwynplaine had raised his eyes.

  He was about to drink a cup of tea, but did not drink it. He placed it on the table with the slow movement of a spring drawn back; his fingers remained open, his eyes fixed. He scarcely breathed.

  A man was standing in the doorway, behind Dea.

  He was clad in black, with a hood. He wore a wig down to his eyebrows, and held in his hand an iron staff with a crown at each end.

  His staff was short and massive.

  He was like Medusa thrusting her head between two branches in Paradise.

  Ursus, who had heard some one enter and raised his head without loosing his hold of Homo, recognised the terrible personage.

  He shook from head to foot, and whispered to Gwynplaine:

  "It's the wapentake."

  Gwynplaine recollected.

  An exclamation of surprise was about to escape him, but he restrained it.

  The iron staff, with the crown at each end, was called the iron weapon.

  It was from this iron weapon, upon which the city officers of justice took the oath when they entered on their duties, that the old wapentakes of the English police derived their qualification.

  Behind the man in the wig the frightened landlord could just be perceived in the shadow.

  Without saying a word, a personification of the muta Themis of the old charters, the man stretched his right arm over the radiant Dea, and touched Gwynplaine on the shoulder with the iron staff, at the same time pointing with his left thumb to the door of the Green Box behind him. These gestures, all the more imperious for their silence, meant, follow me.

  "Pro signo exeundi, sursum trahe," says the old Norman record.

  He who was touched by the iron weapon had no right but the right of obedience. To that mute order there was no reply. The harsh penalties of the English law threatened the refractory.

  Gwynplaine felt a shock under the rigid touch of the law; then he sat as though petrified.

  If, instead of having been merely grazed on the shoulder, he had been struck a violent blow on the head with the iron staff, he could not have been more stunned. He knew that the police-officer summoned him to follow; but why? That he could not understand.

  On his part Ursus, too, was thrown into the most painful agitation, but he saw through matters pretty distinctly. His thoughts ran on the jugglers and preachers, his competitors, on informations laid against the Green Box, on that delinquent the wolf, on his own affair with the three Bishopsgate commissioners, and who knows?--perhaps--but that would be too fearful--Gwynplaine's unbecoming and factious speeches touching the royal authority. He trembled violently.

  Dea was smiling.

  Neither Gwynplaine nor Ursus pronounced a word. They had both the same thought: not to frighten Dea. It may have struck the wolf as well, for he ceased growling. True, Ursus did not loose him.

  Homo, however, was a prudent wolf when occasion required. Who is there who has not remarked a kind of intelligent anxiety in animals?

  It may be that to the extent to which a wolf can understand mankind he felt that he was an outlaw.

  Gwynplaine rose.

  Resistance was impracticable, as Gwynplaine knew. He remembered Ursus' words, and there was no question possible.

  He remained standing in front of the wapentake.

  The latter raised the iron staff from Gwynplaine's shoulder, and drawing it back, held it out straight in an attitude of command: a constable's attitude which was well understood in those days by the whole people, and which expressed the following order:

  "Let this man, and no other, follow me. The rest remain where they are. Silence!"

  No curious followers were allowed. In all times the police have had a taste for arrests of the kind.

  This description of seizure was termed sequestration of the person.

  The wapentake turned round in one motion, like a piece of mechanism revolving on its own pivot, and with grave and magisterial step proceeded toward the door of the Green Box.

  Gwynplaine looked at Ursus.

  The latter went through a pantomime composed as follows: he shrugged his shoulders, placed both elbows close to his hips, with his hands out, and knitted his brows into chevrons, all which signifies--we must submit to the unknown.

  Gwynplaine looked at Dea.

  She was in her dream. She was still smiling.

  He put the ends of his fingers to his lips and sent her an unutterable kiss.

  Ursus, relieved of some portion of his terror now that the wapentake's back was turned, seized the moment to whisper in Gwynplaine's ear:

  "On your life, do not speak until you are questioned."

  Gwynplaine, with the same care to make no noise as he would have taken in a sick-room, took his hat and cloak from the hook on the partition, wrapped himself up to the eyes in the cloak, and pushed his hat over his forehead. Not having been to bed, he had his working clothes still on, and his leather esclavine round his neck. Once more he looked at Dea. Having reached the door, the wapentake raised his staff and began to descend the steps; then Gwynplaine set out as if the man was dragging him by an invisible chain. Ursus watched Gwynplaine leave the Green Box. At that moment the wolf gave a low growl, but Ursus silenced him and whispered, "He is coming back."

  In the yard, Master Nicless was stemming, with servile and imperious gestures, the cries of terror raised by Vinos and Fibi, as in great distress they watched Gwynplaine led away, and the mourning-coloured garb and the iron staff of the wapentake.

  The two girls were like petrifactions: they were in the attitude of stalactites.

  Govicum, stunned, was looking open-mouthed out of a window.

  The wapentake preceded Gwynplaine by a few steps, never turning round or looking at him, in that icy ease which is given by the knowledge that one is the law.

  In death-like silence they both crossed the yard, went through the dark taproom, and reached the street. A fen passers-by had colleected about the inn door, and the justice of the quorum was there at the head of a squad of police. The idlers, stupefied, and without breathing a word, opened out and stood aside, with English discipline, at the sight of the constable's staff. The wapentake then moved off in the direction of the narrow street then called the Little Strand, running by the Thames; and Gwynplaine, with the justice of the quorum's men in ranks on each side, like a double hedge, pale, without a motion, except that of his steps, wrapped in his cloak as in a shroud, was leaving the inn further and further behind him as he followed the silent man, like a statue following a spectre.

  * * *

  III

  LEX, REX, FEX

  UNEXPLAINED ARREST, which would greatly astonish an Englishman nowadays, was then a very usual proceeding of the police. Recourse was had to it, notwithstanding the Habeas Corpus Act, up to George II's time, especially in such delicate cases as were provided for by lettres de cachet in France; and one of the accusations against which Walpole had to defend himself was that he had caused or allowed :I!Teuhof to be arrested in that manner. The accusation was probably without foundation, for Neuhof, King of Corsica, was put in prison by his creditors.

  These silent captures of the person, very usual with the Holy Vehm in Germany, were admitted by German custom, which rules one-half of the old English laws, and recommended in certain cases by Norman custom, which rules the other half. Justinian's chief of the palace police was called Silentiarius Imperialis. The English magistrates who practiced the captures in question relied upon numerous Norman texts: "Canes latrant, sergentes silent. Sergenter agere, id est tacere." They quoted Lundulphus Sagax, paragraph 16: "Facit Imperator silentium." They quoted the charter of King Philip in 1307: "Multos tenebimus bastonerios qui, obmutescentes, sergentare valeant." They quoted the statutes of Henry I of England, cap. 53: "Surge signo jussus. Taciturnior esto. Hoc est esse in captione regis." They took advantage especially of the following prescription, held to form part of the ancient feudal franchises of En
gland: "Sous les viscomtes sont les serjans de l'esp&eecute;e, lesquels doivent justicier vertueusement à l'esp&eecute;e tous ceux qui suient malveses compagnies, gens diffamez d'aucuns crimes, et gens fuites et forbannis . . . et les doivent si vigoureusement et discrètement appr&eecute;hender, que la bonne gent qui sont paisibles soient gardez paisiblement et que les malfeteurs soient espoant&eecute;s." To be thus arrested was to be seized "à le glaive de l'espèe." (Vetus Consuetudo Normanniæ, MS. part 1, sect. 1, ch. 11.) The jurisconsults referred besides in Charta Ludovici Hutuni pro Normannis, chapter Servientes spathæ. Servientes spathæ, in the gradual approach of base Latin to our idioms, became sergentes spadæ.

  These silent arrests were the contrary of the Clameur de Haro, and gave warning that it was advisable to hold one's tongue until such time as light should be thrown upon certain matters still in the dark.

  They signified questions reserved, and showed in the operation of the police a certain amount of raison d'&eecute;tat.

  The legal term "private" was applied to arrests of this description.

  It was thus that Edward III, according to some chroniclers, caused Mortimer to be seized in the bed of his mother, Isabella of France. This again we may take leave to doubt; for Mortimer sustained a siege in his town before being captured.

  Warwick, the king-maker, delighted in practicing this mode of "attaching people."

  Cromwell made use of it, especially in Connaught; and it was with this precaution of silence that Trailie Arcklo, a relation of the Earl of Ormond, was arrested at Kilmacaugh.

  These captures of the body by the mere motion of justice represented rather the mandat de comparution than the warrant of arrest.

  Sometimes they were but processes of inquiry, and even argued, by the silence imposed upon all, a certain consideration for the person seized.

  For the mass of the people, little versed as they were in the estimate of such shades of difference, they had peculiar terrors.

  It must not be forgotten that, in 1705 and even much later, England was far from being what she is to-day. The general features of its constitution were confused and, at times, very oppressive. Daniel Defoe, who had himself had a taste of the pillory, characterises the social order of England, somewhere in his writings, as the "iron hands of the law." There was not only the law, there was its arbitrary administration. We have but to recall Steele, ejected from Parliament; Locke, driven from his chair; Hobbes and Gibbon, compelled to flight; Charles Churchill, Hume, and Priestley, persecuted; John Wilkes sent to the Tower. The task would be a long one were we to count over the victims of the statute against seditious libel. The Inquisition had, to some extent, spread its arrangements throughout Europe, and its police practice was taken as a guide. A monstrous attempt against all rights was possible in England. We have only to recall the Gazetier Cuirass&eecute;. In the midst of the eighteenth century, Louis XV had writers whose works displeased him arrested in Piccadilly. It is true that George II laid his hands on the Pretender in France right in the middle of the hall at the opera. Those were two long arms! that of the King of France reaching London! that of the King of England, Paris! Such was the liberty of the period.

  We may add that they were fond of putting people to death privately in prisons, sleight-of-hand mingled with capital punishment; a hideous expedient, to which England is reverting at the present moment, thus giving to the world the strange spectacle of a great people, which, in its desire to take the better part, chooses the worse; and which, having before it the past on one side and progress on the other, mistakes its way, and takes night for day.

  * * *

  IV

  URSUS SPIES ON THE POLICE

  AS WE HAVE already said, according to the very severe laws of the police of those days, the summons to follow the wapentake addressed to an individual, implied to all other persons present the command not to stir.

  Some curious idlers, however, were stubborn, and followed from afar off the cortège which had taken Gwynplaine into custody.

  Ursus was of them.

  He had been as nearly petrified as any one has a right to be. But Ursus, so often assailed by the surprises incident to a wandering life, and by the malice of chance, was, like a ship-of-war, prepared for action, and could call to the post of danger the whole crew--that is to say, the aid of all his intelligence.

  He flung off his stupor, and began to think. He strove not to give way to emotion, but to stand face to face with circumstances.

  To look fortune in the face is the duty of every one not an idiot; to seek not to understand, but to act. Presently he asked himself:

  What could he do?

  Gwynplaine being taken, Ursus was placed between two terrors--a fear for Gwynplaine, which instigated him to follow; and a fear for himself, which urged him to remain where he was.

  Ursus had the intrepidity of a fly, and the impassibility of a sensitive plant. His agitation was not to be described. However, he took his resolution heroically, and decided to brave the law, and to follow the wapentake, so anxious was he concerning the fate of Gwynplaine.

  His terror must have been great to prompt so much courage.

  To what valiant acts will not fear drive a hare!

  The chamois in despair jumps a precipice. To be terrified into imprudence is one of the forms of fear.

  Gwynplaine had been carried off rather than arrested. The operation of the police had been executed so rapidly that the Fair field, generally little frequented at that hour of the morning, had scarcely taken cognizance of the circumstance.

  Scarcely any one in the caravans had any idea that the wapentake had come to take Gwynplaine Hence, the smallness of the crowd.

  Gwynplaine, thanks to his cloak and his hat, which nearly concealed his face, could not be recognised by the passers-by.

  Before he went out to follow Gwynplaine, Ursus took a precaution. He spoke to Master Nicless, to the boy Govicum, and to Fibi and Vinos, and insisted on their keeping absolute silence before Dea, who was ignorant of everything. That they should not utter a syllable that could make her suspect what had occurred; that they should make her understand that the cares of the management of the Green Box necessitated the absence of Gwynplaine and Ursus; that, besides, it would soon be the time of her daily siesta, and that before she awoke he and Gwynplaine would have returned; that all that had taken place had arisen from a mistake; that it would be very easy for Gwynplaine and himself to clear themselves before the magistrate and police; that a touch of the finger would put the matter straight, after which they should both return; above all, that no one should say a word on the subject to Dea. Having given these directions he departed.

  Ursus was unable to follow Gwynplaine without being remarked. Though he kept at the greatest possible distance, he so managed as not to lose sight of him. Boldness in ambuscade is the bravery of the timid.

  After all, notwithstanding the solemnity of the attendant circumstances, Gwynplaine might have been summoned before the magistrate for some unimportant infraction of the law.

  Ursus assured himself that the question would be decided at once.

  The solution of the mystery would be made under his very eyes by the direction taken by the cortège which took Gwynplaine from Tarrinzeau Field when it reached the entrance of the lanes of the Little Strand.

  If it turned to the left, it would conduct Gwynplaine to the justice hall in Southwark. In that case there would be little to fear, some trifling municipal offence, an admonition from the magistrate, two or three shillings to pay, and Gwynplaine would be set at liberty, and the representation of Chaos Vanquished would take place in the evening as usual. In that case no one would know that anything unusual had happened.

  If the cortège turned to the right, matters would be serious.

  There were frightful places in that direction.

  When the wapentake, leading the file of soldiers between whom Gwynplaine walked, arrived at the small streets, Ursus watched them breathlessly. There are moments in which a
man's whole being passes into his eyes.

  Which way were they going to turn?

  They turned to the right.

  Ursus, staggering with terror, leaned against a wall that he might not fall.

  There is no hypocrisy so great as the words which we say to ourselves, "I wish to know the worst!" At heart we do not wish it at all. We have a dreadful fear of knowing it. Agony is mingled with a dim effort not to see the end. We do not own it to ourselves, but we would draw back if we dared; and when we have advanced, we reproach ourselves for having done so.

  Thus did Ursus. He shuddered as he thought:

  "Here are things going wrong. I should have found it out soon enough. What business had I to follow Gwynplaine?"

  Having made this reflection, man being but self-contradiction, he increased his pace, and, mastering his anxiety, hastened to get nearer the cortège, so as not to break in the maze of small streets, the thread between Gwynplaine and himself.

  The cortège of police could not move quickly on account of its solemnity.

  The wapentake led it.

  The justice of the quorum closed it.

  This order compelled a certain deliberation of movement.

  All the majesty possible in an official shone in the justice of the quorum. His costume held a middle place between the splendid robe of a doctor of music of Oxford and the sober black habiliments of a doctor of divinity of Cambridge. He wore the dress of a gentleman under a long godebert, which is a mantle trimmed with the fur of the Norwegian hare. He was half gothic and half modern, wearing a wig like Lamoignon, and sleeves like Tristan l'Hermite. His great, round eye watched Gwynplaine with the fixedness of an owl's.