Thus they had reached, Dea sixteen, Gwynplaine nearly twenty-five.  They were not, as it would now be expressed, “more advanced” than the first day.  Less even; for it may be remembered that on their wedding night she was nine months and he ten years old.  A sort of holy childhood had continued in their love.  Thus it sometimes happens that the belated nightingale prolongs her nocturnal song till dawn.

Their caresses went no further than pressing hands, or lips brushing a naked arm.  Soft, half-articulate whispers sufficed them.

Twenty-four and sixteen!  So it happened that Ursus, who did not lose sight of the ill turn he intended to do them, said,—­

“One of these days you must choose a religion.”

“Wherefore?” inquired Gwynplaine.

“That you may marry.”

“That is already done,” said Dea.

Dea did not understand that they could be more man and wife than they were already.

At bottom, this chimerical and virginal content, this innocent union of souls, this celibacy taken for marriage, was not displeasing to Ursus.

Besides, were they not already married?  If the indissoluble existed anywhere, was it not in their union?  Gwynplaine and Dea!  They were creatures worthy of the love they mutually felt, flung by misfortune into each other’s arms.  And as if they were not enough in this first link, love had survened on misfortune, and had attached them, united and bound them together.  What power could ever break that iron chain, bound with knots of flowers?  They were indeed bound together.

Dea had beauty, Gwynplaine had sight.  Each brought a dowry.  They were more than coupled—­they were paired:  separated solely by the sacred interposition of innocence.

Though dream as Gwynplaine would, however, and absorb all meaner passions as he could in the contemplation of Dea and before the tribunal of conscience, he was a man.  Fatal laws are not to be eluded.  He underwent, like everything else in nature, the obscure fermentations willed by the Creator.  At times, therefore, he looked at the women who were in the crowd, but he immediately felt that the look was a sin, and hastened to retire, repentant, into his own soul.

Let us add that he met with no encouragement.  On the face of every woman who looked upon him he saw aversion antipathy, repugnance, and rejection.  It was clear that no other than Dea was possible for him.  This aided his repentance.

CHAPTER VIII.

NOT ONLY HAPPINESS, BUT PROSPERITY.

What true things are told in stories!  The burnt scar of the invisible fiend who has touched you is remorse for a wicked thought.  In Gwynplaine evil thoughts never ripened, and he had therefore no remorse.  Sometimes he felt regret.

Vague mists of conscience.

What was this?

Nothing.

Their happiness was complete—­so complete that they were no longer even poor.