get in?  Tell me!  No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.  Explanations diminish interest.  I prefer the marvellous, and you are hideous enough to be wonderful.  You have fallen from the highest heavens, or you have risen from the depths of hell through the devil’s trap-door.  Nothing can be more natural.  The ceiling opened or the floor yawned.  A descent in a cloud, or an ascent in a mass of fire and brimstone, that is how you have travelled.  You have a right to enter like the gods.  Agreed; you are my lover.”

Gwynplaine was scared, and listened, his mind growing more irresolute every moment.  Now all was certain.  Impossible to have any further doubt.  That letter! the woman confirmed its meaning.  Gwynplaine the lover and the beloved of a duchess!  Mighty pride, with its thousand baleful heads, stirred his wretched heart.  Vanity, that powerful agent within us, works us measureless evil.

The duchess went on, “Since you are here, it is so decreed.  I ask nothing more.  There is some one on high, or in hell, who brings us together.  The betrothal of Styx and Aurora!  Unbridled ceremonies beyond all laws!  The very day I first saw you I said, ‘It is he!’ I recognize him.  He is the monster of my dreams.  He shall be mine.  We should give destiny a helping hand.  Therefore I wrote to you.  One question, Gwynplaine:  do you believe in predestination?  For my part, I have believed in it since I read, in Cicero, Scipio’s dream.  Ah!  I did not observe it.  Dressed like a gentleman!  You in fine clothes!  Why not?  You are a mountebank.  All the more reason.  A juggler is as good as a lord.  Moreover, what are lords?  Clowns.  You have a noble figure; you are magnificently made.  It is wonderful that you should be here.  When did you arrive?  How long have you been here?  Did you see me naked?  I am beautiful, am I not?  I was going to take my bath.  Oh, how I love you!  You read my letter!  Did you read it yourself?  Did any one read it to you?  Can you read?  Probably you are ignorant.  I ask questions, but don’t answer them.  I don’t like the sound of your voice.  It is soft.  An extraordinary thing like you should snarl, and not speak.  You sing harmoniously.  I hate it.  It is the only thing about you that I do not like.  All the rest is terrible—­is grand.  In India you would be a god.  Were you born with that frightful laugh on your face?  No!  No doubt it is a penal brand.  I do hope you have committed some crime.  Come to my arms.”

She sank on the couch, and made him sit beside her.  They found themselves close together unconsciously.  What she said passed over Gwynplaine like a mighty storm.  He hardly understood the meaning of her whirlwind of words.  Her eyes were full of admiration.  She spoke tumultuously, frantically, with a voice broken and tender.  Her words were music, but their music was to Gwynplaine as a hurricane.  Again she fixed her gaze upon him and continued,—­