He had not even the chance of being repulsed on account of his terrible disfigurement.  The woman had written to say that she loved him.

In every crisis there is a moment when the scale hesitates before kicking the beam.  When we lean to the worst side of our nature, instead of strengthening our better qualities, the moral force which has been preserving the balance gives way, and down we go.  Had this critical moment in Gwynplaine’s life arrived?

How could he escape?

So it is she—­the duchess, the woman!  There she was in that lonely room—­asleep, far from succour, helpless, alone, at his mercy; yet he was in her power!  The duchess!  We have, perchance, observed a star in the distant firmament.  We have admired it.  It is so far off.  What can there be to make us shudder in a fixed star?  Well, one day—­one night, rather—­it moves.  We perceive a trembling gleam around it.  The star which we imagined to be immovable is in motion.  It is no longer a star, but a comet—­the incendiary giant of the skies.  The luminary moves on, grows bigger, shakes off a shower of sparks and fire, and becomes enormous.  It advances towards us.  Oh, horror, it is coming our way!  The comet recognizes us, marks us for its own, and will not be turned aside.  Irresistible attack of the heavens!  What is it which is bearing down on us?  An excess of light, which blinds us; an excess of life, which kills us.  That proposal which the heavens make we refuse; that unfathomable love we reject.  We close our eyes; we hide; we tear ourselves away; we imagine the danger is past.  We open our eyes:  the formidable star is still before us; but, no longer a star, it has become a world—­a world unknown, a world of lava and ashes; the devastating prodigy of space.  It fills the sky, allowing no compeers.  The carbuncle of the firmament’s depths, a diamond in the distance, when drawn close to us becomes a furnace.  You are caught in its flames.  And the first sensation of burning is that of a heavenly warmth.

CHAPTER IV.

SATAN.

Suddenly the sleeper awoke.  She sat up with a sudden and gracious dignity of movement, her fair silken tresses falling in soft disorder.  Then stretching herself, she yawned like a tigress in the rising sun.

Perhaps Gwynplaine breathed heavily, as we do when we endeavour to restrain our respiration.

“Is any one there?” said she.

She yawned as she spoke, and her very yawn was graceful.  Gwynplaine listened to the unfamiliar voice—­the voice of a charmer, its accents exquisitely haughty, its caressing intonation softening its native arrogance.  Then rising on her knees—­there is an antique statue kneeling thus in the midst of a thousand transparent folds—­she drew the dressing-gown towards her, and springing from the couch stood upright.  In the twinkling of an eye the silken robe was around her.  The trailing sleeve concealed her hands;