| 554 | 555 | 556 | 557 | 558 |
| 1 | 236 | 472 | 708 | 944 |
|
man in scarlet was the will-o'-the-wisp of a dream. Sometimes, at night,
nothings condensed into flame come and laugh at us. Having had his laugh
out, the visionary being had disappeared, and left Gwynplaine behind
him, mad.
Such are the freaks of darkness.
The second terror was, to find out that he was in his right senses.
A vision? Certainly not. How could that be? Had he not a letter in his
hand? Did he not see an envelope, a seal, paper, and writing? Did he not
know from whom that came? It was all clear enough. Some one took a pen
and ink, and wrote. Some one lighted a taper, and sealed it with wax.
Was not his name written on the letter--"To Gwynplaine?" The paper was
scented. All was clear.
Gwynplaine knew the little man. The dwarf was a page. The gleam was a
livery. The page had given him a rendezvous for the same hour on the
morrow, at the corner of London Bridge.
Was London Bridge an illusion?
No, no. All was clear. There was no delirium. All was reality.
Gwynplaine was perfectly clear in his intellect. It was not a
phantasmagoria, suddenly dissolving above his head, and fading into
nothingness. It was something which had really happened to him. No,
Gwynplaine was not mad, nor was he dreaming. Again he read the letter.
556
Page
Quick Jump
|