| 896 | 897 | 898 | 899 | 900 |
| 1 | 236 | 472 | 708 | 944 |
|
him. Besides, what was the good of it? All weariness dwells in the
depths of despair.
The trial had been made. It could not be renewed.
Gwynplaine was like a gamester who has played all his trumps away, one
after the other. He had allowed himself to be drawn to a fearful
gambling-table, without thinking what he was about; for, so subtle is
the poison of illusion, he had staked Dea against Josiana, and had
gained a monster; he had staked Ursus against a family, and had gained
an insult; he had played his mountebank platform against his seat in the
Lords; for the applause which was his he had gained insult. His last
card had fallen on that fatal green cloth, the deserted bowling-green.
Gwynplaine had lost. Nothing remained but to pay. Pay up, wretched man!
The thunder-stricken lie still. Gwynplaine remained motionless. Anybody
perceiving him from afar, in the shadow, stiff, and without movement,
might have fancied that he saw an upright stone.
Hell, the serpent, and reverie are tortuous. Gwynplaine was descending
the sepulchral spirals of the deepest thought.
He reflected on that world of which he had just caught a glimpse with
the icy contemplation of a last look. Marriage, but no love; family, but
no brotherly affection; riches, but no conscience; beauty, but no
modesty; justice, but no equity; order, but no equilibrium; authority,
but no right; power, but no intelligence; splendour, but no light.
898
Page
Quick Jump
|