ing surpassing all the extravagance of dreams. He was loved
in consequence of his mask. Far from repulsing the goddess, the mask
attracted her. Gwynplaine was not only loved; he was desired. He was
more than accepted; he was chosen. He, chosen!

What! there, where this woman dwelt, in the regal region of
irresponsible splendour, and in the power of full, free will; where
there were princes, and she could take a prince; nobles, and she could
take a noble; where there were men handsome, charming, magnificent, and
she could take an Adonis: whom did she take? Gnafron! She could choose
from the midst of meteors and thunders, the mighty six-winged seraphim,
and she chose the larva crawling in the slime. On one side were
highnesses and peers, all grandeur, all opulence, all glory; on the
other, a mountebank. The mountebank carried it! What kind of scales
could there be in the heart of this woman? By what measure did she weigh
her love? She took off her ducal coronet, and flung it on the platform
of a clown! She took from her brow the Olympian aureola, and placed it
on the bristly head of a gnome! The world had turned topsy-turvy. The
insects swarmed on high, the stars were scattered below, whilst the
wonder-stricken Gwynplaine, overwhelmed by a falling ruin of light, and
lying in the dust, was enshrined in a glory. One all-powerful,
revolting against beauty and splendour, gave herself to the damned of
night; preferred Gwynplaine to Antinoues; excited by curiosity, she
entered the shadows, and descending within them, and from this
abdication of goddess-ship was rising, crowned and prodigious, the
royalty of the wretched. "You are hideous. I love you." These words
touched Gwynplaine in the ugly spot of pride. Pride is the heel in which
all heroes are vulnerable. Gwynplaine was flattered in his vanity as a
monster. He was loved for his deformity. He, too, was the exception, as
much and perhaps more than the Jupiters and the Apollos. He felt
superhuman, and so much a monster as to be a god. Fearful bewilderment!

Now, who was this woman? What did he know about her? Everything and
nothing. She was a duchess, that he knew; he knew, also, that she was
beautiful and rich; that she had liveries, lackeys, pages, and footmen
running with torches by the side of her coroneted carriage. He knew that
she was in love with him; at least she said so. Of everything else he
was ignorant. He knew her title, but not her name. He knew her thought;