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Rebellion against that which is our law or our fatality must be short-lived; at times the waters of the sea resist the power of gravitation, swell into a waterspout and become a mountain, but only on the condition of falling back again. Such a struggle was Gwynplaine's.
Something within him was calling Dea aloud, Dea the maiden, Dea the other half of a man, Dea flesh and blood, Dea with uncovered bosom. That cry was almost driving away the angel. Mysterious crisis through which all love must pass and in which the Ideal is in danger! Therein is the predestination of Creation. Moment of heavenly corruption! Gwynplaine's love of Dea was becoming nuptial.
They love each other too much. This may have its disadvantages. Let us avoid a fire. Let us moderate these hearts." Then Ursus had recourse to warnings of this nature, speaking to Gwynplaine when Dea slept, and to Dea when Gwynplaine's back was turned: "Dea, you must not be so fond of Gwynplaine. To live in the life of another is perilous. Egoism is a good root of happiness. Men escape from women.
The House of Lords was to sit that evening. Curia erat serena, run the old records. In England parliamentary work is by preference undertaken at night. It once happened that Sheridan began a speech at midnight and finished it at sunrise. The two postchaises returned to Windsor. Gwynplaine's carriage set out for London.
Their faces were scarcely visible in the dim light, neither could they see Gwynplaine's face. The Usher of the Black Rod, raising his wand, said, "My Lord Fermain Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville, I, the Usher of the Black Rod, first officer of the presence chamber, hand your lordship over to Garter King-at-Arms."
Yet a voice tells us that weakness is a crime. Gwynplaine's feelings are not to be described. The flesh, life, terror, lust, an overwhelming intoxication of spirit, and all the shame possible to pride. Was he about to succumb? She repeated, "I love you!" and flung her frenzied arms around him. Gwynplaine panted. Suddenly close at hand there rang, clear and distinct, a little bell.
All executions do not take place on the scaffold; and men, from the moment they are in a body, whether in mobs or in senates, have always a ready executioner amongst them, called sarcasm. There is no torture to be compared to that of the wretch condemned to execution by ridicule. This was Gwynplaine's fate. He was stoned with their jokes, and riddled by the scoffs shot at him.
Gwynplaine's kisses are upon it. Oh, what would I not have given to have lived on! What a happy life we led in our poor caravan! How we sang! How I listened to the applause! What joy it was never to be separated from each other! It seemed to me that I was living in a cloud with you; I knew one day from another, although I was blind.
It is done." "Done?" "Turn your head, Lord Eure; he is sitting behind you, on the barons' benches." Lord Eure turned, but Gwynplaine's face was concealed under his forest of hair. "So," said the old man, who could see nothing but his hair, "he has already adopted the new fashion. He does not wear a wig." Grantham accosted Colepepper. "Some one is finely sold." "Who is that?" "David Dirry-Moir."
She laid her head on Gwynplaine's shoulder, who was sitting behind, and supporting her, his eyes wild with grief. "Oh," said she, "how happy I am!" Ursus took her wrist, and counted the pulsation of the artery. He did not shake his head.
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