ch broke through the half-open door, and by it
again examined the closed letter. There was no design on the seal, and
on the envelope was written, "_To Gwynplaine_." He broke the seal, tore
the envelope, unfolded the letter, put it directly under the light, and
read as follows:--

"You are hideous; I am beautiful. You are a player; I am a duchess. I am
the highest; you are the lowest. I desire you! I love you! Come!"

BOOK THE FOURTH.

_THE CELL OF TORTURE._

CHAPTER I.

THE TEMPTATION OF ST. GWYNPLAINE.

One jet of flame hardly makes a prick in the darkness; another sets fire
to a volcano.

Some sparks are gigantic.

Gwynplaine read the letter, then he read it over again. Yes, the words
were there, "I love you!"

Terrors chased each other through his mind.

The first was, that he believed himself to be mad.

He was mad; that was certain: He had just seen what had no existence.
The twilight spectres were making game of him, poor wretch! The little
man in scarlet was the will-o'-the-wisp of a dream. Sometimes, at night,
nothings condensed into flame come and laugh at us. Having had his laugh
out, the visionary being had disappeared, and left Gwynplaine behind
him, mad.

Such are the freaks of darkness.

The second terror was, to find out that he was in his right senses.

A vision? Certainly not. How could that be? Had he not a letter in his
hand? Did he not see an envelope, a seal, paper, and writing? Did he not
know from whom that came? It was all clear enough. Some one took a pen
and ink, and wrote. Some one lighted a taper, and sealed it with wax.
Was not his name written on the letter--"_To Gwynplaine_?" The paper was
scented. All was clear.

Gwynplaine knew the little man. The dwarf was a page. The gleam was a
livery. The page had given him a rendezvous for the same hour on the
morrow, at the corner of London Bridge.

Was London Bridge an illusion?

No, no. All was clear. There was no delirium. All was reality.
Gwynplaine was perfectly clear in his intellect. It was not a
phantasmagoria, suddenly dissolving above his head, and fading into
nothingness. It was something which had really happened to him. No,
Gwynplaine was not mad, nor was he dreaming. Again he read the letter.

Well, yes! But then?

That then was terror-striking.

There was a woman who desired him! If so, let no one ever again
pronounce the word incredible! A woman desire him! A woman who had seen
his face! A