But the woman slept on.

What aggravated the storm within him was, that he saw not the princess, not the duchess, not the lady, but the woman.

Gwynplaine, losing all self-command, trembled.  What could he do against such a temptation?  Here were no skilful effects of dress, no silken folds, no complex and coquettish adornments, no affected exaggeration of concealment or of exhibition, no cloud.  It was fearful simplicity—­a sort of mysterious summons—­the shameless audacity of Eden.  The whole of the dark side of human nature was there.  Eve worse than Satan; the human and the superhuman commingled.  A perplexing ecstasy, winding up in a brutal triumph of instinct over duty.  The sovereign contour of beauty is imperious.  When it leaves the ideal and condescends to be real, its proximity is fatal to man.

Now and then the duchess moved softly on the bed, with the vague movement of a cloud in the heavens, changing as a vapour changes its form.  Absurd as it may appear, though he saw her present in the flesh before him, yet she seemed a chimera; and, palpable as she was, she seemed to him afar off.  Scared and livid, he gazed on.  He listened for her breathing, and fancied he heard only a phantom’s respiration.  He was attracted, though against his will.  How arm himself against her—­or against himself?  He had been prepared for everything except this danger.  A savage doorkeeper, a raging monster of a jailer—­such were his expected antagonists.  He looked for Cerberus; he saw Hebe.  A sleeping woman!  What an opponent!  He closed his eyes.  Too bright a dawn blinds the eyes.  But through his closed eyelids there penetrated at once the woman’s form—­not so distinct, but beautiful as ever.

Fly!  Easier said than done.  He had already tried and failed.  He was rooted to the ground, as if in a dream.  When we try to draw back, temptation clogs our feet and glues them to the earth.  We can still advance, but to retire is impossible.  The invisible arms of sin rise from below and drag us down.

There is a commonplace idea, accepted by every one, that feelings become blunted by experience.  Nothing can be more untrue.  You might as well say that by dropping nitric acid slowly on a sore it would heal and become sound, and that torture dulled the sufferings of Damiens.  The truth is, that each fresh application intensifies the pain.

From one surprise after another, Gwynplaine had become desperate.  That cup, his reason, under this new stupor, was overflowing.  He felt within him a terrible awakening.  Compass he no longer possessed.  One idea only was before him—­the woman.  An indescribable happiness appeared, which threatened to overwhelm him.  He could no longer decide for himself.  There was an irresistible current and a reef.  The reef was not a rock, but a siren—­a magnet at the bottom of the abyss.  He wished to tear himself away from this magnet; but how was he to carry out his wish?  He had ceased to feel any basis of support.  Who can foresee the fluctuations of the human mind!  A man may be wrecked, as is a ship.  Conscience is an anchor.  It is a terrible thing, but, like the anchor, conscience may be carried away.