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Gwynplaine examined himself, and examined his fate.
The backward glance of thought; terrible recapitulation!
When at the top of a mountain, we look down the precipice; when at the
bottom, we look up at heaven. And we say, "I was there."
Gwynplaine was at the very bottom of misfortune. How sudden, too, had
been his fall!
Such is the hideous swiftness of misfortune, although it is so heavy
that we might fancy it slow. But no! It would likewise appear that snow,
from its coldness, ought to be the paralysis of winter, and, from its
whiteness, the immobility of the winding-sheet. Yet this is contradicted
by the avalanche.
The avalanche is snow become a furnace. It remains frozen, but it
devours. The avalanche had enveloped Gwynplaine. He had been torn like a
rag, uprooted like a tree, precipitated like a stone. He recalled all
the circumstances of his fall. He put himself questions, and returned
answers. Grief is an examination. There is no judge so searching as
conscience conducting its own trial.
What amount of remorse was there in his despair? This he wished to find
out, and dissected his conscience. Excruciating vivisection!
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