To the crowd, which has too many heads to have a thought, and too many eyes to have a sight—­to the crowd who, superficial themselves, judge only of the surface, Gwynplaine was a clown, a merry-andrew, a mountebank, a creature grotesque, a little more and a little less than a beast.  The crowd knew only the face.

For Dea, Gwynplaine was the saviour, who had gathered her into his arms in the tomb, and borne her out of it; the consoler, who made life tolerable; the liberator, whose hand, holding her own, guided her through that labyrinth called blindness.  Gwynplaine was her brother, friend, guide, support; the personification of heavenly power; the husband, winged and resplendent.  Where the multitude saw the monster, Dea recognized the archangel.  It was that Dea, blind, perceived his soul.

CHAPTER IV.

WELL-MATCHED LOVERS.

Ursus being a philosopher understood.  He approved of the fascination of Dea.  He said, The blind see the invisible.  He said, Conscience is vision.  Then, looking at Gwynplaine, he murmured, Semi-monster, but demi-god.

Gwynplaine, on the other hand, was madly in love with Dea.

There is the invisible eye, the spirit, and the visible eye, the pupil.  He saw her with the visible eye.  Dea was dazzled by the ideal; Gwynplaine, by the real.  Gwynplaine was not ugly; he was frightful.  He saw his contrast before him:  in proportion as he was terrible, Dea was sweet.  He was horror; she was grace.  Dea was his dream.  She seemed a vision scarcely embodied.  There was in her whole person, in her Grecian form, in her fine and supple figure, swaying like a reed; in her shoulders, on which might have been invisible wings; in the modest curves which indicated her sex, to the soul rather than to the senses; in her fairness, which amounted almost to transparency; in the august and reserved serenity of her look, divinely shut out from earth; in the sacred innocence of her smile—­she was almost an angel, and yet just a woman.

Gwynplaine, we have said, compared himself and compared Dea.

His existence, such as it was, was the result of a double and unheard-of choice.  It was the point of intersection of two rays—­one from below and one from above—­a black and a white ray.  To the same crumb, perhaps pecked at at once by the beaks of evil and good, one gave the bite, the other the kiss.  Gwynplaine was this crumb—­an atom, wounded and caressed.  Gwynplaine was the product of fatality combined with Providence.  Misfortune had placed its finger on him; happiness as well.  Two extreme destinies composed his strange lot.  He had on him an anathema and a benediction.  He was the elect, cursed.  Who was he?  He knew not.  When he looked at himself, he saw one he knew not; but this unknown was a monster.  Gwynplaine lived as it were beheaded, with a face which did not belong to him.  This face was frightful,