While Gwynplaine, in tremulous tones which varied at almost every word, was reading the document, the duchess, half risen from the couch, listened with fixed attention.  When Gwynplaine finished, she snatched the letter from his hands.

“Anne R,” she murmured in a tone of abstraction.  Then picking up from the floor the parchment she had thrown down, she ran her eye over it.  It was the confession of the shipwrecked crew of the Matutina, embodied in a report signed by the sheriff of Southwark and by the lord chancellor.

Having perused the report, she read the queen’s letter over again.  Then she said, “Be it so.”  And calmly pointing with her finger to the door of the gallery through which he had entered, she added, “Begone.”

Gwynplaine was petrified, and remained immovable.  She repeated, in icy tones, “Since you are my husband, begone.”  Gwynplaine, speechless, and with eyes downcast like a criminal, remained motionless.  She added, “You have no right to be here; it is my lover’s place.”  Gwynplaine was like a man transfixed.  “Very well,” said she; “I must go myself.  So you are my husband.  Nothing can be better.  I hate you.”  She rose, and with an indescribably haughty gesture of adieu left the room.  The curtain in the doorway of the gallery fell behind her.

CHAPTER V.

THEY RECOGNIZE, BUT DO NOT KNOW, EACH OTHER.

Gwynplaine was alone—­alone, and in the presence of the tepid bath and the deserted couch.  The confusion in his mind had reached its culminating point.  His thoughts no longer resembled thoughts.  They overflowed and ran riot; it was the anguish of a creature wrestling with perplexity.  He felt as if he were awaking from a horrid nightmare.  The entrance into unknown spheres is no simple matter.

From the time he had received the duchess’s letter, brought by the page, a series of surprising adventures had befallen Gwynplaine, each one less intelligible than the other.  Up to this time, though in a dream, he had seen things clearly.  Now he could only grope his way.  He no longer thought, nor even dreamed.  He collapsed.  He sank down upon the couch which the duchess had vacated.

Suddenly he heard a sound of footsteps, and those of a man.  The noise came from the opposite side of the gallery to that by which the duchess had departed.  The man approached, and his footsteps, though deadened by the carpet, were clear and distinct.  Gwynplaine, in spite of his abstraction, listened.

Suddenly, beyond the silver web of curtain which the duchess had left partly open, a door, evidently concealed by the painted glass, opened wide, and there came floating into the room the refrain of an old French song, carolled at the top of a manly and joyous voice,—­

  “Trois petits gorets sur leur fumier
  Juraient comme de porteurs de chaise,”

and a man entered.  He wore a sword by his side, a magnificent naval uniform, covered with gold lace, and held in his hand a plumed hat with loops and cockade.  Gwynplaine sprang up erect as if moved by springs.  He recognized the man, and was, in turn, recognized by him.  From their astonished lips came, simultaneously, this double exclamation:—­