of the crisis that this offer was made him, and the naked bosom of the Sphinx appeared before his dazzled eyes. Youth is an inclined plane. Gwynplaine stooped, and something pushed him forward. What? The season and the night. Who? The woman. Were there no month of April, man would be a great deal more virtuous. The budding plants are a set of accomplices! Love is the thief, Spring the receiver.
Gwynplaine was deeply agitated. There is a kind of unpleasant smoke preceding sin, in which the conscience cannot breathe. The nausea of hell steals over virtue in temptation. The yawning abyss emits an exhalation which warns the strong and turns the weak giddy. Gwynplaine was suffering from this mysterious discomfort. Dilemmas, transient and at the same time stubborn, were floating before him. Sin, presenting itself obstinately again and again to his mind, was taking form. The morrow, midnight? London Bridge, the page? Should he go? "Yes," cried the flesh; "No," cried the soul.
Nevertheless, we must remark that, strange as it may appear at first sight, Gwynplaine never once put himself the question, "Should he go?" quite distinctly. Reprehensible actions are like over-strong brandies,—you cannot swallow them at a single draught. You set down your glass; you will finish it presently; there is a strange taste even about that first drop. One thing is certain, he felt something behind him pushing him forward towards the unknown, and he trembled. He could catch a faint glimpse of a crumbling precipice, and he drew back, stricken with terror. He closed his eyes. He tried hard to convince himself that the adventure had never occurred, and to persuade himself into doubting his reason. This was evidently the best plan; the wisest thing he could do was to believe him-
