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But the woman slept on.
What aggravated the storm within him was, that he saw not the princess,
not the duchess, not the lady, but the woman.
Gwynplaine, losing all self-command, trembled. What could he do against
such a temptation? Here were no skilful effects of dress, no silken
folds, no complex and coquettish adornments, no affected exaggeration of
concealment or of exhibition, no cloud. It was fearful simplicity--a
sort of mysterious summons--the shameless audacity of Eden. The whole of
the dark side of human nature was there. Eve worse than Satan; the human
and the superhuman commingled. A perplexing ecstasy, winding up in a
brutal triumph of instinct over duty. The sovereign contour of beauty is
imperious. When it leaves the ideal and condescends to be real, its
proximity is fatal to man.
Now and then the duchess moved softly on the bed, with the vague
movement of a cloud in the heavens, changing as a vapour changes its
form. Absurd as it may appear, though he saw her present in the flesh
before him, yet she seemed a chimera; and, palpable as she was, she
seemed to him afar off. Scared and livid, he gazed on. He listened for
her breathing, and fancied he heard only a phantom's respiration. He
was attracted, though against his will. How arm himself against her--or
against himself? He had been prepared for everything except this danger.
A savage doorkeeper, a raging monster of a jailer--such were his
expected antagonists. He looked for Cerberus; he saw Hebe. A sleeping
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