low? For the first time since he had arrived at the age of reflection, he felt his heart oppressed by a consciousness of his baseness,—or rather of that which we nowadays call abasement. The descriptions and enumerations of Ursus, his lyrical inventories, his rhapsodies over castles, parks, fountains, and colonnades, his catalogues of art treasures and estates, all recurred vividly to Gwynplaine's mind. He was possessed with the image of this zenith. That a man should be a lord!—it seemed chimerical. It was so, however. Incredible thing! There were lords! But were they of flesh and blood, like himself? It seemed doubtful. He felt that he was in the depths of shadow, encompassed by a wall, but he could just discern in the distance above his head, through the mouth of the pit, that dazzling confusion of azure, of figures and of rays, which constitutes Olympus. In the midst of this glory the duchess shone resplendent.
Gwynplaine felt for this woman a strange, inexpressible longing, combined with a conviction of the impossibility of attainment. This poignant contradiction recurred to his mind again and again, notwithstanding every effort. He saw near to him, even within his reach, in close and tangible reality, the soul; and in the unattainable,—in the depths of the ideal world,—the flesh. None of these thoughts attained definite shape. They were like a vapour within him, changing every instant in form, and floating away. Luckily for him, he did not form even in his dreams any hope of reaching the heights where the duchess dwelt. The vibration of such ladders of fancy, if ever we set our foot upon them, may unsettle our brains forever; intending to scale Olympus, we reach Bedlam. Any distinct feeling of actual desire would have terrified Gwynplaine however. He entertained none of that nature. Besides, was he likely ever to see the lady again? Most proba-
