On the other side of the bath, by the wall, was a lofty dressing-table of solid silver, furnished with every requisite for the table, having in its centre, and in imitation of a window, eight small Venetian mirrors, set in a silver frame.  In a panel on the wall was a square opening, like a little window, which was closed by a door of solid silver.  This door was fitted with hinges, like a shutter.  On the shutter there glistened a chased and gilt royal crown.  Over it, and affixed to the wall, was a bell, silver gilt, if not of pure gold.

Opposite the entrance of the chamber, in which Gwynplaine stood as if transfixed, there was an opening in the marble wall, extending to the ceiling, and closed by a high and broad curtain of silver tissue.  This curtain, of fairy-like tenuity, was transparent, and did not interrupt the view.  Through the centre of this web, where one might expect a spider, Gwynplaine saw a more formidable object—­a woman.  Her dress was a long chemise—­so long that it floated over her feet, like the dresses of angels in holy pictures; but so fine that it seemed liquid.

The silver tissue, transparent as glass and fastened only at the ceiling, could be lifted aside.  It separated the marble chamber, which was a bathroom, from the adjoining apartment, which was a bedchamber.  This tiny dormitory was as a grotto of mirrors.  Venetian glasses, close together, mounted with gold mouldings, reflected on every side the bed in the centre of the room.  On the bed, which, like the toilet-table, was of silver, lay the woman; she was asleep.

The crumpled clothes bore evidence of troubled sleep.  The beauty of the folds was proof of the quality of the material.

It was a period when a queen, thinking that she should be damned, pictured hell to herself as a bed with coarse sheets.[20]

A dressing-gown, of curious silk, was thrown over the foot of the couch.  It was apparently Chinese; for a great golden lizard was partly visible in between the folds.

Beyond the couch, and probably masking a door, was a large mirror, on which were painted peacocks and swans.

Shadow seemed to lose its nature in this apartment, and glistened.  The spaces between the mirrors and the gold work were lined with that sparkling material called at Venice thread of glass—­that is, spun glass.

At the head of the couch stood a reading desk, on a movable pivot, with candles, and a book lying open, bearing this title, in large red letters, “Alcoranus Mahumedis.”

Gwynplaine saw none of these details.  He had eyes only for the woman.  He was at once stupefied and filled with tumultuous emotions, states apparently incompatible, yet sometimes co-existent.  He recognized her.  Her eyes were closed, but her face was turned towards him.  It was the duchess—­she, the mysterious being in whom all the splendours of the unknown were united; she who had occasioned him so many unavowable dreams; she who had written him so strange a letter!  The only woman in the world of whom he could say, “She has seen me, and she desires me!”