im and continued,--

"I feel degraded in your presence, and oh, what happiness that is! How
insipid it is to be a grandee! I am noble; what can be more tiresome?
Disgrace is a comfort. I am so satiated with respect that I long for
contempt. We are all a little erratic, from Venus, Cleopatra, Mesdames
de Chevreuse and de Longueville, down to myself. I will make a display
of you, I declare. Here's a love affair which will be a blow to my
family, the Stuarts. Ah! I breathe again. I have discovered a secret. I
am clear of royalty. To be free from its trammels is indeed deliverance.
To break down, defy, make and destroy at will, that is true enjoyment.
Listen, I love you."

She paused; then with a frightful smile went on, "I love you, not only
because you are deformed, but because you are low. I love monsters, and
I love mountebanks. A lover despised, mocked, grotesque, hideous,
exposed to laughter on that pillory called a theatre, has for me an
extraordinary attraction. It is tasting the fruit of hell. An infamous
lover, how exquisite! To taste the apple, not of Paradise, but of
hell--such is my temptation. It is for that I hunger and thirst. I am
that Eve, the Eve of the depths. Probably you are, unknown to yourself,
a devil. I am in love with a nightmare. You are a moving puppet, of
which the strings are pulled by a spectre. You are the incarnation of
infernal mirth. You are the master I require. I wanted a lover such as
those of Medea and Canidia. I felt sure that some night would bring me
such a one. You are all that I want. I am talking of a heap of things of
which you probably know nothing. Gwynplaine, hitherto I have remained
untouched; I give myself to you, pure as a burning ember. You evidently
do not believe me; but if you only knew how little I care!"

Her words flowed like a volcanic eruption. Pierce Mount Etna, and you
may obtain some idea of that jet of fiery eloquence.

Gwynplaine stammered, "Madame--"

She placed her hand on his mouth. "Silence," she said. "I am studying
you. I am unbridled desire, immaculate. I am a vestal bacchante. No man
has known me, and I might be the virgin pythoness at Delphos, and have
under my naked foot the bronze tripod, where the priests lean their
elbows on the skin of the python, whispering questions to the invisible
god. My heart is of stone, but it is like those mysterious pebbles which
the sea washes to the foot of the rock called Huntly Nabb, at the mouth
of the Tees,