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 burned 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 exulted in his integrity as an eagle exults in his wings. It seemed to him as if his temptation had vanished 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 chattering of sparrows! Nonsense, worthy of Mother Goose or of Homer! With two loving hearts, seek no further for poetry; with two kisses for dialogue, go no further for music.
"Gwynplaine, I dreamed that we were animals, and had wings."
"Wings; that means birds," murmured Gwynplaine.
"Fools! it means angels," growled Ursus.
And their talk went on.
"If you did not exist, Gwynplaine!—"
"What then?"
"It could only be because there was no God."
"The tea is too hot; you will burn yourself, Dea."
"Blow on my cup."
"How beautiful you are this morning!"
"Do you know that I have a great many things to say to you?"
"Say them."
"I love you!"
"I adore you!"
