enuity, 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!"

He had dismissed the dreams from his mind; he had burnt the letter. He
had, as far as lay in his power, banished the remembrance of her from
his thoughts and dreams. He no longer thought of her. He had