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protect them would be to disappear, and then the cause of their
persecution would cease. He out of the way, they would be allowed to
remain in peace. Into what icy channel was his thought beginning to run!
Oh! why had he allowed himself to be separated from Dea? Was not his
first duty towards her? To serve and to defend the people? But Dea was
the people. Dea was an orphan. She was blind; she represented humanity.
Oh! what had they done to them? Cruel smart of regret! His absence had
left the field free for the catastrophe. He would have shared their
fate; either they would have been taken and carried away with him, or he
would have been swallowed up with them. And, now, what would become of
him without them? Gwynplaine without Dea! Was it possible? Without Dea
was to be without everything. It was all over now. The beloved group was
for ever buried in irreparable disappearance. All was spent. Besides,
condemned and damned as Gwynplaine was, what was the good of further
struggle? He had nothing more to expect either of men or of heaven. Dea!
Dea! Where is Dea? Lost! What? lost? He who has lost his soul can regain
it but through one outlet--death.
Gwynplaine, tragically distraught, placed his hand firmly on the
parapet, as on a solution, and looked at the river.
It was his third night without sleep. Fever had come over him. His
thoughts, which he believed to be clear, were blurred. He felt an
imperative need of sleep. He remained for a few instants leaning over
the water. Its darkness offered him a bed of boundless tranquillity in
the infinity of shadow. Sinister temptation!
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