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Gwynplaine had a thought--"What should I be without her?" Dea had a
thought--"What should I be without him?" The exile of each made a
country for both. The two incurable fatalities, the stigmata of
Gwynplaine and the blindness of Dea, joined them together in
contentment. They sufficed to each other. They imagined nothing beyond
each other. To speak to one another was a delight, to approach was
beatitude; by force of reciprocal intuition they became united in the
same reverie, and thought the same thoughts. In Gwynplaine's tread Dea
believed that she heard the step of one deified. They tightened their
mutual grasp in a sort of sidereal chiaroscuro, full of perfumes, of
gleams, of music, of the luminous architecture of dreams. They belonged
to each other; they knew themselves to be for ever united in the same
joy and the same ecstasy; and nothing could be stranger than this
construction of an Eden by two of the damned.
They were inexpressibly happy. In their hell they had created heaven.
Such was thy power, O Love! Dea heard Gwynplaine's laugh; Gwynplaine saw
Dea's smile. Thus ideal felicity was found, the perfect joy of life was
realized, the mysterious problem of happiness was solved; and by whom?
By two outcasts.
For Gwynplaine, Dea was splendour. For Dea, Gwynplaine was presence.
Presence is that profound mystery which renders the invisible world
divine, and from which results that other mystery--confidence. In
religions this is the only thing which is irreducible; but this
irreducible thing suffices. The great motive power is not seen; it is
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