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His absence had caused a catastrophe. Had this absence depended on him?
In all that had happened, had he been a free agent? No! He had felt
himself captive. What was that which had arrested and detained him--a
prison? No. A chain? No. What then? Sticky slime! He had sunk into the
slough of greatness.
To whom has it not happened to be free in appearance, yet to feel that
his wings are hampered?
There had been something like a snare spread for him. What is at first
temptation ends by captivity.
Nevertheless--and his conscience pressed him on this point--had he
merely submitted to what had been offered him? No; he had accepted it.
Violence and surprise had been used with him in a certain measure, it
was true; but he, in a certain measure, had given in. To have allowed
himself to be carried off was not his fault; but to have allowed himself
to be inebriated was his weakness. There had been a moment--a decisive
moment--when the question was proposed. This Barkilphedro had placed a
dilemma before Gwynplaine, and had given him clear power to decide his
fate by a word. Gwynplaine might have said, "No." He had said, "Yes."
From that "Yes," uttered in a moment of dizziness, everything had
sprung. Gwynplaine realized this now in the bitter aftertaste of that
consent.
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