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| 1 | 236 | 472 | 708 | 944 |
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Gwynplaine was scared, and listened, his mind growing more irresolute
every moment. Now all was certain. Impossible to have any further doubt.
That letter! the woman confirmed its meaning. Gwynplaine the lover and
the beloved of a duchess! Mighty pride, with its thousand baleful heads,
stirred his wretched heart. Vanity, that powerful agent within us, works
us measureless evil.
The duchess went on, "Since you are here, it is so decreed. I ask
nothing more. There is some one on high, or in hell, who brings us
together. The betrothal of Styx and Aurora! Unbridled ceremonies beyond
all laws! The very day I first saw you I said, 'It is he!' I recognize
him. He is the monster of my dreams. He shall be mine. We should give
destiny a helping hand. Therefore I wrote to you. One question,
Gwynplaine: do you believe in predestination? For my part, I have
believed in it since I read, in Cicero, Scipio's dream. Ah! I did not
observe it. Dressed like a gentleman! You in fine clothes! Why not? You
are a mountebank. All the more reason. A juggler is as good as a lord.
Moreover, what are lords? Clowns. You have a noble figure; you are
magnificently made. It is wonderful that you should be here. When did
you arrive? How long have you been here? Did you see me naked? I am
beautiful, am I not? I was going to take my bath. Oh, how I love you!
You read my letter! Did you read it yourself? Did any one read it to
you? Can you read? Probably you are ignorant. I ask questions, but don't
answer them. I don't like the sound of your voice. It is soft. An
extraordinary thing like you should snarl, and not speak. You sing
harmoniously. I hate it. It is the only thing about you that I do not
like. All the rest is terrible--is grand. In India you would be a god.
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