they precipitated me, under the crush of those who come and go, under the trampling feet of men, under the undermost of the human race, lower than the serf, baser than the serving man, lower than the felon, lower than the slave, at the spot where Chaos becomes a sewer, in which I was engulfed.  It is from thence that I come; it is from this that I rise; it is from this that I am risen.  And here I am now.  Quits!”

He sat down, he rose, clasped his head with his hands, began to pace the room again, and his tempestuous monologue continued within him.

“Where am I?—­on the summit?  Where is it that I have just alighted?—­on the highest peak?  This pinnacle, this grandeur, this dome of the world, this great power, is my home.  This temple is in air.  I am one of the gods.  I live in inaccessible heights.  This supremacy, which I looked up to from below, and from whence emanated such rays of glory that I shut my eyes; this ineffaceable peerage; this impregnable fortress of the fortunate, I enter.  I am in it.  I am of it.  Ah, what a decisive turn of the wheel!  I was below, I am on high—­on high for ever!  Behold me a lord!  I shall have a scarlet robe.  I shall have an earl’s coronet on my head.  I shall assist at the coronation of kings.  They will take the oath from my hands.  I shall judge princes and ministers.  I shall exist.  From the depths into which I was thrown, I have rebounded to the zenith.  I have palaces in town and country:  houses, gardens, chases, forests, carriages, millions.  I will give fetes.  I will make laws.  I shall have the choice of joys and pleasures.  And the vagabond Gwynplaine, who had not the right to gather a flower in the grass, may pluck the stars from heaven!”

Melancholy overshadowing of a soul’s brightness!  Thus it was that in Gwynplaine, who had been a hero, and perhaps had not ceased to be one, moral greatness gave way to material splendour.  A lamentable transition!  Virtue broken down by a troop of passing demons.  A surprise made on the weak side of man’s fortress.  All the inferior circumstances called by men superior, ambition, the purblind desires of instinct, passions, covetousness, driven far from Gwynplaine by the wholesome restraints of misfortune, took tumultuous possession of his generous heart.  And from what had this arisen?  From the discovery of a parchment in a waif drifted by the sea.  Conscience may be violated by a chance attack.

Gwynplaine drank in great draughts of pride, and it dulled his soul.  Such is the poison of that fatal wine.

Giddiness invaded him.  He more than consented to its approach.  He welcomed it.  This was the effect of previous and long-continued thirst.  Are we an accomplice of the cup which deprives us of reason?  He had always vaguely desired this.  His eyes had always turned towards the great.  To watch is to wish.  The eaglet is not born in the eyrie for nothing.

Now, however, at moments, it seemed to him the simplest thing in the world that he should be a lord.  A few hours only had passed, and yet the past of yesterday seemed so far off!  Gwynplaine had fallen into the ambuscade of Better, who is the enemy of Good.