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Nevertheless, we must remark that, strange as it may appear at first
sight, he never once put himself the question, "Should he go?" quite
distinctly. Reprehensible actions are like over-strong brandies--you
cannot swallow them at a draught. You put down your glass; you will see
to it presently; there is a strange taste even about that first drop.
One thing is certain: he felt something behind him pushing him, forward
towards the unknown. And he trembled. He could catch a glimpse of a
crumbling precipice, and he drew back, stricken by the terror encircling
him. He closed his eyes. He tried hard to deny to himself that the
adventure had ever occurred, and to persuade himself into doubting his
reason. This was evidently his best plan; the wisest thing he could do
was to believe himself mad.
Fatal fever! Every man, surprised by the unexpected, has at times felt
the throb of such tragic pulsations. The observer ever listens with
anxiety to the echoes resounding from the dull strokes of the
battering-ram of destiny striking against a conscience.
Alas! Gwynplaine put himself questions. Where duty is clear, to put
oneself questions is to suffer defeat.
There are invasions which the mind may have to suffer. There are the
Vandals of the soul--evil thoughts coming to devastate our virtue. A
thousand contrary ideas rushed into Gwynplaine's brain, now following
each other singly, now crowding together. Then silence reigned again,
and he would lean his head on his hands, in a kind of mournful
attention, as of one who contemplates a landscape by night.
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