mysterious
confrontations occur to the soul as they do to creation. Both were
silent--she, who was the light; he, who was the abyss; she, who was
divine; he, who was appeased; and over Gwynplaine's stormy heart Dea
shone with the indescribable effect of a star shining on the sea.

CHAPTER II.

FROM GAY TO GRAVE.

How simple is a miracle! It was breakfast hour in the Green Box, and Dea
had merely come to see why Gwynplaine had not joined their little
breakfast table.

"It is you!" exclaimed Gwynplaine; and he had said everything. There was
no other horizon, no vision for him now but the heavens where Dea was.
His mind was appeased--appeased in such a manner as he alone can
understand who has seen the smile spread swiftly over the sea when the
hurricane had passed away. Over nothing does the calm come so quickly as
over the whirlpool. This results from its power of absorption. And so it
is with the human heart. Not always, however.

Dea had but to show herself, and all the light that was in Gwynplaine
left him and went to her, and behind the dazzled Gwynplaine there was
but a flight of phantoms. What a peacemaker is adoration! A few minutes
afterwards they were sitting opposite each other, Ursus between them,
Homo at their feet. The teapot, hung over a little lamp, was on the
table. Fibi and Vinos were outside, waiting.

They breakfasted as they supped, in the centre compartment. From the
position in which the narrow table was placed, Dea's back was turned
towards the aperture in the partition which was opposite the entrance
door of the Green Box. Their knees were touching. Gwynplaine was pouring
out tea for Dea. Dea blew gracefully on her cup. Suddenly she sneezed.
Just at that moment a thin smoke rose above the flame of the lamp, and
something like a piece of paper fell into ashes. It was the smoke which
had caused Dea to sneeze.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Nothing," replied Gwynplaine.

And he smiled. He had just burnt the duchess's letter.

The conscience of the man who loves is the guardian angel of the woman
whom he loves.

Unburdened of the letter, his relief was wondrous, and Gwynplaine felt
his integrity as the eagle feels its wings.

It seemed to him as if his temptation had evaporated with the smoke, and
as if the duchess had crumbled into ashes with the paper.

Taking up their cups at random, and drinking one after the other from
the same one, they talked. A babble of lovers, a cha