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flesh. The old man who is not to be stamped out, and over whom none of
us can triumph, was awaking in that backward youth, still a boy at
twenty-four.
It was just then, at the most stormy moment of the crisis, that the
offer was made him, and the naked bosom of the Sphinx appeared before
his dazzled eyes. Youth is an inclined plane. Gwynplaine was stooping,
and something pushed him forward. What? the season, and the night. Who?
the woman.
Were there no month of April, man would be a great deal more virtuous.
The budding plants are a set of accomplices! Love is the thief, Spring
the receiver.
Gwynplaine was shaken.
There is a kind of smoke of evil, preceding sin, in which the conscience
cannot breathe. The obscure nausea of hell comes over virtue in
temptation. The yawning abyss discharges an exhalation which warns the
strong and turns the weak giddy. Gwynplaine was suffering its mysterious
attack.
Dilemmas, transient and at the same time stubborn, were floating before
him. Sin, presenting itself obstinately again and again to his mind, was
taking form. The morrow, midnight? London Bridge, the page? Should he
go? "Yes," cried the flesh; "No," cried the soul.
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