slipped into the old hovel which he used as a bedroom, looked at Ursus, who was asleep, blew out his candle, but did not go to bed.
Thus an hour passed away. Weary, at length, and fancying that bed and sleep were synonymous, he laid his head upon the pillow without undressing, making darkness the concession of closing his eyes. But the storm of emotions which assailed him had not ceased for an instant. Sleeplessness is a torture which night inflicts upon man. Gwynplaine suffered greatly. For the first time in his life, he was not satisfied with himself. Secret loathing mingled with gratified vanity. What was he to do. Day broke at last; he heard Ursus get up, but did not raise his eyelids. No truce for him, however. The letter was ever in his mind. Every word of it came back to him. In certain violent mental conflicts, thought becomes a liquid. It is convulsed, it heaves, and something like the dull roaring of the waves rises from it. Flood and flow, sudden shocks and whirls, the hesitation of the wave before the rock; hail and rain; clouds with the light shining through their breaks; the petty flights of useless foam; the wild swell broken in an instant; great efforts lost; wreck appearing all around; darkness and universal dispersion,—these things which are true of the sea, are equally true of man. Gwynplaine was a prey to such a storm.
In the height of his agony, and while his eyes were still closed, he heard an exquisite voice asking, "Are you asleep, Gwynplaine?" He opened his eyes with a start and sat up. Dea was standing in the half-open door. An ineffable smile was in her eyes and on her lips. She stood there, charming in the unconscious serenity of her radiance. Then came, as it were, a sacred moment. Gwynplaine gazed on her, startled, dazzled, awakened. Awakened from what? From
