possessed. To be possessed by the devil is the exception; to be possessed by a woman, the rule. Every man has to bear this alienation of himself. What a sorceress a pretty woman is! The true name of love is captivity. Man is made prisoner by the soul of a woman, and by her flesh as well,—sometimes even more by the flesh than by the soul. The soul is the true-love; the flesh, the mistress. We slander the devil. It was not he who tempted Eve. It was Eve who tempted him. The woman began it; Lucifer was passing by quietly. He perceived the woman, and became Satan. The flesh is the covering of the soul. It entices, strange to say, by its very modesty. Nothing could be more distracting. It is full of shame, the hussy!
It was passion rather than love which was then agitating Gwynplaine, and holding him in its power. What dark things lurk beneath the fairness of Venus! Something within him was calling aloud for Dea,—Dea the maiden, Dea the other half of a man, Dea flesh and flame! This cry was almost driving away the angel. Mysterious crisis through which all love must pass, and in which the Ideal is imperilled. Moment of heavenly corruption! Gwynplaine's love of Dea was becoming nuptial. Virgin love is but a transition. The moment was come. Gwynplaine coveted the woman. He coveted a woman! Precipice of which one sees but the first gentle slope. Luckily, there was no woman for Gwynplaine but Dea. The only one he desired. The only one who could desire him.
Gwynplaine felt that vague and mighty tremour which is the vital claim of infinity. Besides, there was the aggravation of the spring. He was breathing the nameless odours of the starry darkness. He walked on with a feeling of wild delight. The wandering perfumes of the rising sap, the soft irradiations which float
