His absence had caused a catastrophe.  Had this absence depended on him?  In all that had happened, had he been a free agent?  No!  He had felt himself captive.  What was that which had arrested and detained him—­a prison?  No.  A chain?  No.  What then?  Sticky slime!  He had sunk into the slough of greatness.

To whom has it not happened to be free in appearance, yet to feel that his wings are hampered?

There had been something like a snare spread for him.  What is at first temptation ends by captivity.

Nevertheless—­and his conscience pressed him on this point—­had he merely submitted to what had been offered him?  No; he had accepted it.

Violence and surprise had been used with him in a certain measure, it was true; but he, in a certain measure, had given in.  To have allowed himself to be carried off was not his fault; but to have allowed himself to be inebriated was his weakness.  There had been a moment—­a decisive moment—­when the question was proposed.  This Barkilphedro had placed a dilemma before Gwynplaine, and had given him clear power to decide his fate by a word.  Gwynplaine might have said, “No.”  He had said, “Yes.”

From that “Yes,” uttered in a moment of dizziness, everything had sprung.  Gwynplaine realized this now in the bitter aftertaste of that consent.

Nevertheless—­for he debated with himself—­was it then so great a wrong to take possession of his right, of his patrimony, of his heritage, of his house; and, as a patrician, of the rank of his ancestors; as an orphan, of the name of his father?  What had he accepted?  A restitution.  Made by whom?  By Providence.

Then his mind revolted.  Senseless acceptance!  What a bargain had he struck! what a foolish exchange!  He had trafficked with Providence at a loss.  How now!  For an income of L80,000 a year; for seven or eight titles; for ten or twelve palaces; for houses in town, and castles in the country; for a hundred lackeys; for packs of hounds, and carriages, and armorial bearings; to be a judge and legislator; for a coronet and purple robes, like a king; to be a baron and a marquis; to be a peer of England, he had given the hut of Ursus and the smile of Dea.  For shipwreck and destruction in the surging immensity of greatness, he had bartered happiness.  For the ocean he had given the pearl.  O madman!  O fool!  O dupe!

Yet nevertheless—­and here the objection reappeared on firmer ground—­in this fever of high fortune which had seized him all had not been unwholesome.  Perhaps there would have been selfishness in renunciation; perhaps he had done his duty in the acceptance.  Suddenly transformed into a lord, what ought he to have done?  The complication of events produces perplexity of mind.  This had happened to him.  Duty gave contrary orders.  Duty on all sides at once, duty multiple and contradictory—­this was the bewilderment which he had suffered.  It was this that had paralyzed him, especially when he