The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo

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The serjeant of the coif on the right of the sheriff interrupted him,
and said, with an indifference indescribably lugubrious in its effect,
"_Overhernessa_. Laws of Alfred and of Godrun, chapter the sixth."

The sheriff resumed.

"The law is respected by all except by scoundrels who infest the woods
where the hinds bear young."

Like one clock striking after another, the serjeant said,--

"_Qui faciunt vastum in foresta ubi damoe solent founinare_."

"He who refuses to answer the magistrate," said the sheriff, "is
suspected of every vice. He is reputed capable of every evil."

The serjeant interposed.

"_Prodigus, devorator, profusus, salax, ruffianus, ebriosus, luxuriosus,
simulator, consumptor patrimonii, elluo, ambro, et gluto_."

"Every vice," said the sheriff, "means every crime. He who confesses
nothing, confesses everything. He who holds his peace before the
questions of the judge is in fact a liar and a parricide."

"_Mendax et parricida_," said the serjeant.

The sheriff said,--

"Man, it is not permitted to absent oneself by silence. To pretend
contumaciousness is a wound given to the law. It is like Diomede
wounding a goddess. Taciturnity before a judge is a form of rebellion.
Treason to justice is high treason. Nothing is more hateful or rash. He
who resists interrogation steals truth. The law has provided for this.
For such cases, the English have always enjoyed the right of the foss,
the fork, and chains."

"_Anglica Charta_, year 1088," said the serjeant. Then with the same
mechanical gravity he added, "_Ferrum, et fossam, et furcas cum aliis
libertatibus_."

The sheriff continued,--

"Man! Forasmuch as you have not chosen to break silence, though of sound
mind and having full knowledge in respect of the subject concerning
which justice demands an answer, and forasmuch as you are diabolically
refractory, you have necessarily been put to torture, and you have been,
by the terms of the criminal statutes, tried by the '_Peine forte et
dure_.' This is what has been done to you, for the law requires that I
should fully inform you. You have been brought to this dungeon. You have
been stripped of your clothes. You have been laid on your back naked on
the ground, your limbs have been stretched and tied to the four pillars
of the law; a sheet of iron has been placed on your chest, and as many
stones as you can bear have been heaped on your belly, 'and more,' says
the law."

"_Plusque_," affirmed the serjeant.

The sheriff continued,--

"In this situation, and before prolonging the torture, a second summons
to answer and to speak has been made you by me, sheriff of the county of
Surrey, and you have satanically kept silent, though under torture,
chains, shackles, fetters, and irons."

"_Attachiamenta legalia_," said the serjeant.

"On your refusal and contumacy," said the sheriff, "it being right that
the obstinacy of the law should equal the obstinacy of the criminal, the
proof has been continued according to the edicts and texts. The first
day you were given nothing to eat or drink."

"_Hoc est superjejunare_," said the serjeant.

There was silence, the awful hiss of the man's breathing was heard from
under the heap of stones.

The serjeant-at-law completed his quotation.

"_Adde augmentum abstinentiae ciborum diminutione. Consuetudo
brittanica_, art. 504."

The two men, the sheriff and the serjeant, alternated. Nothing could be
more dreary than their imperturbable monotony. The mournful voice
responded to the ominous voice; it might be said that the priest and the
deacon of punishment were celebrating the savage mass of the law.

The sheriff resumed,--

"On the first day you were given nothing to eat or drink. On the second
day you were given food, but nothing to drink. Between your teeth were
thrust three mouthfuls of barley bread. On the third day they gave you
to drink, but nothing to eat. They poured into your mouth at three
different times, and in three different glasses, a pint of water taken
from the common sewer of the prison. The fourth day is come. It is
to-day. Now, if you do not answer, you will be left here till you die.
Justice wills it."

The Serjeant, ready with his reply, appeared.

"_Mors rei homagium est bonae legi_."

"And while you feel yourself dying miserably," resumed the sheriff, "no
one will attend to you, even when the blood rushes from your throat,
your chin, and your armpits, and every pore, from the mouth to the
loins."

"_A throtabolla_," said the Serjeant, "_et pabu et subhircis et a
grugno usque ad crupponum_."

The sheriff continued,--

"Man, attend to me, because the consequences concern you. If you
renounce your execrable silence, and if you confess, you will only be
hanged, and you will have a right to the meldefeoh, which is a sum of
money."

"_Damnum confitens_," said the Serjeant, "_habeat le meldefeoh. Leges
Inae_, chapter the twentieth."

"Which sum," insisted the sheriff, "shall be paid in doitkins, suskins,
and galihalpens, the only case in which this money is to pass, according
to the terms of the statute of abolition, in the third of Henry V., and
you will have the right and enjoyment of _scortum ante mortem_, and then
be hanged on the gibbet. Such are the advantages of confession. Does it
please you to answer to justice?"

The sheriff ceased and waited.

The prisoner lay motionless.

The sheriff resumed,--

"Man, silence is a refuge in which there is more risk than safety. The
obstinate man is damnable and vicious. He who is silent before justice
is a felon to the crown. Do not persist in this unfilial disobedience.
Think of her Majesty. Do not oppose our gracious queen. When I speak to
you, answer her; be a loyal subject."

The patient rattled in the throat.

The sheriff continued,--

"So, after the seventy-two hours of the proof, here we are at the fourth
day. Man, this is the decisive day. The fourth day has been fixed by the
law for the confrontation."

"_Quarta die, frontem ad frontem adduce_," growled the Serjeant.

"The wisdom of the law," continued the sheriff, "has chosen this last
hour to hold what our ancestors called 'judgment by mortal cold,' seeing
that it is the moment when men are believed on their yes or their no."

The serjeant on the right confirmed his words.

"_Judicium pro frodmortell, quod homines credendi sint per suum ya et
per suum no_. Charter of King Adelstan, volume the first, page one
hundred and sixty-three."

There was a moment's pause; then the sheriff bent his stern face towards
the prisoner.

"Man, who art lying there on the ground--"

He paused.

"Man," he cried, "do you hear me?"

The man did not move.

"In the name of the law," said the sheriff, "open your eyes."

The man's lids remained closed.

The sheriff turned to the doctor, who was standing on his left.

"Doctor, give your diagnostic."

"_Probe, da diagnosticum_," said the serjeant.

The doctor came down with magisterial stiffness, approached the man,
leant over him, put his ear close to the mouth of the sufferer, felt the
pulse at the wrist, the armpit, and the thigh, then rose again.

"Well?" said the sheriff.

"He can still hear," said the doctor.

"Can he see?" inquired the sheriff.

The doctor answered, "He can see."

On a sign from the sheriff, the justice of the quorum and the wapentake
advanced. The wapentake placed himself near the head of the patient. The
justice of the quorum stood behind Gwynplaine.

The doctor retired a step behind the pillars.

Then the sheriff, raising the bunch of roses as a priest about to
sprinkle holy water, called to the prisoner in a loud voice, and became
awful.

"O wretched man, speak! The law supplicates before she exterminates you.
You, who feign to be mute, remember how mute is the tomb. You, who
appear deaf, remember that damnation is more deaf. Think of the death
which is worse than your present state. Repent! You are about to be left
alone in this cell. Listen! you who are my likeness; for I am a man!
Listen, my brother, because I am a Christian! Listen, my son, because I
am an old man! Look at me; for I am the master of your sufferings, and I
am about to become terrible. The terrors of the law make up the majesty
of the judge. Believe that I myself tremble before myself. My own power
alarms me. Do not drive me to extremities. I am filled by the holy
malice of chastisement. Feel, then, wretched man, the salutary and
honest fear of justice, and obey me. The hour of confrontation is come,
and you must answer. Do not harden yourself in resistance. Do not that
which will be irrevocable. Think that your end belongs to me. Half man,
half corpse, listen! At least, let it not be your determination to
expire here, exhausted for hours, days, and weeks, by frightful agonies
of hunger and foulness, under the weight of those stones, alone in this
cell, deserted, forgotten, annihilated, left as food for the rats and
the weasels, gnawed by creatures of darkness while the world comes and
goes, buys and sells, whilst carriages roll in the streets above your
head. Unless you would continue to draw painful breath without remission
in the depths of this despair--grinding your teeth, weeping,
blaspheming--without a doctor to appease the anguish of your wounds,
without a priest to offer a divine draught of water to your soul. Oh! if
only that you may not feel the frightful froth of the sepulchre ooze
slowly from your lips, I adjure and conjure you to hear me. I call you
to your own aid. Have pity on yourself. Do what is asked of you. Give
way to justice. Open your eyes, and see if you recognize this man!"

The prisoner neither turned his head nor lifted his eyelids.

The sheriff cast a glance first at the justice of the quorum and then at
the wapentake.

The justice of the quorum, taking Gwynplaine's hat and mantle, put his
hands on his shoulders and placed him in the light by the side of the
chained man. The face of Gwynplaine stood out clearly from the
surrounding shadow in its strange relief.

At the same time, the wapentake bent down, took the man's temples
between his hands, turned the inert head towards Gwynplaine, and with
his thumbs and his first fingers lifted the closed eyelids.

The prisoner saw Gwynplaine. Then, raising his head voluntarily, and
opening his eyes wide, he looked at him.

He quivered as much as a man can quiver with a mountain on his breast,
and then cried out,--

"'Tis he! Yes; 'tis he!"

And he burst into a horrible laugh.

"'Tis he!" he repeated.

Then his head fell back on the ground, and he closed his eyes again.

"Registrar, take that down," said the justice.

Gwynplaine, though terrified, had, up to that moment, preserved a calm
exterior. The cry of the prisoner, "'Tis he!" overwhelmed him
completely. The words, "Registrar, take that down!" froze him. It seemed
to him that a scoundrel had dragged him to his fate without his being
able to guess why, and that the man's unintelligible confession was
closing round him like the clasp of an iron collar. He fancied himself
side by side with him in the posts of the same pillory. Gwynplaine lost
his footing in his terror, and protested. He began to stammer incoherent
words in the deep distress of an innocent man, and quivering, terrified,
lost, uttered the first random outcries that rose to his mind, and words
of agony like aimless projectiles.

"It is not true. It was not me. I do not know the man. He cannot know
me, since I do not know him. I have my part to play this evening. What
do you want of me? I demand my liberty. Nor is that all. Why have I been
brought into this dungeon? Are there laws no longer? You may as well say
at once that there are no laws. My Lord Judge, I repeat that it is not
I. I am innocent of all that can be said. I know I am. I wish to go
away. This is not justice. There is nothing between this man and me. You
can find out. My life is not hidden up. They came and took me away like
a thief. Why did they come like that? How could I know the man? I am a
travelling mountebank, who plays farces at fairs and markets. I am the
Laughing Man. Plenty of people have been to see me. We are staying in
Tarrinzeau Field. I have been earning an honest livelihood these fifteen
years. I am five-and-twenty. I lodge at the Tadcaster Inn. I am called
Gwynplaine. My lord, let me out. You should not take advantage of the
low estate of the unfortunate. Have compassion on a man who has done no
harm, who is without protection and without defence. You have before you
a poor mountebank."

"I have before me," said the sheriff, "Lord Fermain Clancharlie, Baron
Clancharlie and Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in Sicily, and a peer
of England."

Rising, and offering his chair to Gwynplaine, the sheriff added,--

"My lord, will your lordship deign to seat yourself?"

BOOK THE FIFTH.

_THE SEA AND FATE ARE MOVED BY THE SAME BREATH._

CHAPTER I.

THE DURABILITY OF FRAGILE THINGS.

Destiny sometimes proffers us a glass of madness to drink. A hand is
thrust out of the mist, and suddenly hands us the mysterious cup in
which is contained the latent intoxication.

Gwynplaine did not understand.

He looked behind him to see who it was who had been addressed.

A sound may be too sharp to be perceptible to the ear; an emotion too
acute conveys no meaning to the mind. There is a limit to comprehension
as well as to hearing.

The wapentake and the justice of the quorum approached Gwynplaine and
took him by the arms. He felt himself placed in the chair which the
sheriff had just vacated. He let it be done, without seeking an
explanation.

When Gwynplaine was seated, the justice of the quorum and the wapentake
retired a few steps, and stood upright and motionless, behind the seat.

Then the sheriff placed his bunch of roses on the stone table, put on
spectacles which the secretary gave him, drew from the bundles of papers
which covered the table a sheet of parchment, yellow, green, torn, and
jagged in places, which seemed to have been folded in very small folds,
and of which one side was covered with writing; standing under the light
of the lamp, he held the sheet close to his eyes, and in his most
solemn tone read as follows:--

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

"This present day, the twenty-ninth of January, one thousand six hundred
and ninetieth year of our Lord.

"Has been wickedly deserted on the desert coast of Portland, with the
intention of allowing him to perish of hunger, of cold, and of solitude,
a child ten years old.

"That child was sold at the age of two years, by order of his most
gracious Majesty, King James the Second.

"That child is Lord Fermain Clancharlie, the only legitimate son of Lord
Linnaeus Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville, Marquis of
Corleone in Sicily, a peer of England, and of Ann Bradshaw, his wife,
both deceased. That child is the inheritor of the estates and titles of
his father. For this reason he was sold, mutilated, disfigured, and put
out of the way by desire of his most gracious Majesty.

"That child was brought up, and trained to be a mountebank at markets
and fairs.

"He was sold at the age of two, after the death of the peer, his father,
and ten pounds sterling were given to the king as his purchase-money, as
well as for divers concessions, tolerations, and immunities.

"Lord Fermain Clancharlie, at the age of two years, was bought by me,
the undersigned, who write these lines, and mutilated and disfigured by
a Fleming of Flanders, called Hardquanonne, who alone is acquainted with
the secrets and modes of treatment of Doctor Conquest.

"The child was destined by us to be a laughing mask (_masca ridens_).

"With this intention Hardquanonne performed on him the operation, _Bucca
fissa usque ad aures_, which stamps an everlasting laugh upon the face.

"The child, by means known only to Hardquanonne, was put to sleep and
made insensible during its performance, knowing nothing of the operation
which he underwent.

"He does not know that he is Lord Clancharlie.

"He answers to the name of Gwynplaine.

"This fact is the result of his youth, and the slight powers of memory
he could have had when he was bought and sold, being then barely two
years old.

"Hardquanonne is the only person who knows how to perform the operation
_Bucca fissa_, and the said child is the only living subject upon which
it has been essayed.

"The operation is so unique and singular that though after long years
this child should have come to be an old man instead of a child, and his
black locks should have turned white, he would be immediately recognized
by Hardquanonne.

"At the time that I am writing this, Hardquanonne, who has perfect
knowledge of all the facts, and participated as principal therein, is
detained in the prisons of his highness the Prince of Orange, commonly
called King William III. Hardquanonne was apprehended and seized as
being one of the band of Comprachicos or Cheylas. He is imprisoned in
the dungeon of Chatham.

"It was in Switzerland, near the Lake of Geneva, between Lausanne and
Vevey, in the very house in which his father and mother died, that the
child was, in obedience with the orders of the king, sold and given up
by the last servant of the deceased Lord Linnaeus, which servant died
soon after his master, so that this secret and delicate matter is now
unknown to any one on earth, excepting Hardquanonne, who is in the
dungeon of Chatham, and ourselves, now about to perish.

"We, the undersigned, brought up and kept, for eight years, for
professional purposes, the little lord bought by us of the king.

"To-day, flying from England to avoid Hardquanonne's ill-fortune, our
fear of the penal indictments, prohibitions, and fulminations of
Parliament has induced us to desert, at night-fall, on the coast of
Portland, the said child Gwynplaine, who is Lord Fermain Clancharlie.

"Now, we have sworn secrecy to the king, but not to God.

"To-night, at sea, overtaken by a violent tempest by the will of
Providence, full of despair and distress, kneeling before Him who could
save our lives, and may, perhaps, be willing to save our souls, having
nothing more to hope from men, but everything to fear from God, having
for only anchor and resource repentance of our bad actions, resigned to
death, and content if Divine justice be satisfied, humble, penitent, and
beating our breasts, we make this declaration, and confide and deliver
it to the furious ocean to use as it best may according to the will of
God. And may the Holy Virgin aid us, Amen. And we attach our
signatures."

The sheriff interrupted, saying,--"Here are the signatures. All in
different handwritings."

And he resumed,--

"Doctor Gernardus Geestemunde.--Asuncion.--A cross, and at the side of
it, Barbara Fermoy, from Tyrryf Isle, in the Hebrides; Gaizdorra,
Captain; Giangirate; Jacques Quartourze, alias le Narbonnais; Luc-Pierre
Capgaroupe, from the galleys of Mahon."

The sheriff, after a pause, resumed, a "note written in the same hand as
the text and the first signature," and he read,--

"Of the three men comprising the crew, the skipper having been swept off
by a wave, there remain but two, and we have signed, Galdeazun; Ave
Maria, Thief."

The sheriff, interspersing his reading with his own observations,
continued, "At the bottom of the sheet is written,--

"'At sea, on board of the _Matutina_, Biscay hooker, from the Gulf de
Pasages.' This sheet," added the sheriff, "is a legal document, bearing
the mark of King James the Second. On the margin of the declaration, and
in the same handwriting there is this note, 'The present declaration is
written by us on the back of the royal order, which was given us as our
receipt when we bought the child. Turn the leaf and the order will be
seen.'"

The sheriff turned the parchment, and raised it in his right hand, to
expose it to the light.

A blank page was seen, if the word blank can be applied to a thing so
mouldy, and in the middle of the page three words were written, two
Latin words, _Jussu regis_, and a signature, _Jeffreys_.

"_Jussu regis, Jeffreys_," said the sheriff, passing from a grave voice
to a clear one.

Gwynplaine was as a man on whose head a tile falls from the palace of
dreams.

He began to speak, like one who speaks unconsciously.

"Gernardus, yes, the doctor. An old, sad-looking man. I was afraid of
him. Gaizdorra, Captain, that means chief. There were women, Asuncion,
and the other. And then the Provencal. His name was Capgaroupe. He used
to drink out of a flat bottle on which there was a name written in red."

"Behold it," said the sheriff.

He placed on the table something which the secretary had just taken out
of the bag. It was a gourd, with handles like ears, covered with wicker.
This bottle had evidently seen service, and had sojourned in the water.
Shells and seaweed adhered to it. It was encrusted and damascened over
with the rust of ocean. There was a ring of tar round its neck, showing
that it had been hermetically sealed. Now it was unsealed and open. They
had, however, replaced in the flask a sort of bung made of tarred oakum,
which had been used to cork it.

"It was in this bottle," said the sheriff, "that the men about to perish
placed the declaration which I have just read. This message addressed to
justice has been faithfully delivered by the sea."

The sheriff increased the majesty of his tones, and continued,--

"In the same way that Harrow Hill produces excellent wheat, which is
turned into fine flour for the royal table, so the sea renders every
service in its power to England, and when a nobleman is lost finds and
restores him."

Then he resumed,--

"On this flask, as you say, there is a name written in red."

He raised his voice, turning to the motionless prisoner,--

"Your name, malefactor, is here. Such are the hidden channels by which
truth, swallowed up in the gulf of human actions, floats to the
surface."

The sheriff took the gourd, and turned to the light one of its sides,
which had, no doubt, been cleaned for the ends of justice. Between the
interstices of wicker was a narrow line of red reed, blackened here and
there by the action of water and of time.

The reed, notwithstanding some breakages, traced distinctly in the
wicker-work these twelve letters--Hardquanonne.

Then the sheriff, resuming that monotonous tone of voice which resembles
nothing else, and which may be termed a judicial accent, turned towards
the sufferer.

"Hardquanonne! when by us, the sheriff, this bottle, on which is your
name, was for the first time shown, exhibited, and presented to you, you
at once, and willingly, recognized it as having belonged to you. Then,
the parchment being read to you which was contained, folded and enclosed
within it, you would say no more; and in the hope, doubtless, that the
lost child would never be recovered, and that you would escape
punishment, you refuse to answer. As the result of your refusal, you
have had applied to you the _peine forte et dure_; and the second
reading of the said parchment, on which is written the declaration and
confession of your accomplices, was made to you, but in vain.

"This is the fourth day, and that which is legally set apart for the
confrontation, and he who was deserted on the twenty-ninth of January,
one thousand six hundred and ninety, having been brought into your
presence, your devilish hope has vanished, you have broken silence, and
recognized your victim."

The prisoner opened his eyes, lifted his head, and, with a voice
strangely resonant of agony, but which had still an indescribable calm
mingled with its hoarseness, pronounced in excruciating accents, from
under the mass of stones, words to pronounce each of which he had to
lift that which was like the slab of a tomb placed upon him. He spoke,--

"I swore to keep the secret. I have kept it as long as I could. Men of
dark lives are faithful, and hell has its honour. Now silence is
useless. So be it! For this reason I speak. Well--yes; 'tis he! We did
it between us--the king and I: the king, by his will; I, by my art!"

And looking at Gwynplaine,--

"Now laugh for ever!"

And he himself began to laugh.

This second laugh, wilder yet than the first, might have been taken for
a sob.

The laughed ceased, and the man lay back. His eyelids closed.

The sheriff, who had allowed the prisoner to speak, resumed,--

"All which is placed on record."

He gave the secretary time to write, and then said,--

"Hardquanonne, by the terms of the law, after confrontation followed by
identification, after the third reading of the declarations of your
accomplices, since confirmed by your recognition and confession, and
after your renewed avowal, you are about to be relieved from these
irons, and placed at the good pleasure of her Majesty to be hung as
_plagiary_."

"_Plagiary_," said the serjeant of the coif. "That is to say, a buyer
and seller of children. Law of the Visigoths, seventh book, third
section, paragraph _Usurpaverit_, and Salic law, section the
forty-first, paragraph the second, and law of the Frisons, section the
twenty-first, _Deplagio_; and Alexander Nequam says,--