The voice said:
"He did well to go. This world was not worthy of him. Only I must go with him. Father! I am not ill; I heard you speak just now. I am very well, quite well. I was asleep. Father, I am going to be happy."
"My child," said Ursus, in a voice of anguish; "what do you mean by that?"
The answer was:
"Father, do not be unhappy."
There was a pause, as if to take breath, and then these few words, pronounced slowly, reached Gwynplaine:
"Gwynplaine is no longer here. It is now that I am blind. I knew not what night was. Night is absence."
The voice stopped once more, and then continued:
"I always feared that he would fly away. I felt that he belonged to Heaven. He has taken flight suddenly. It was natural that it should end thus. The soul flies away like a bird. But the nest of the soul is in the height, where dwells the Great Loadstone, who draws all toward Him. I know where to find Gwynplaine. I have no doubt about the way. Father, it is yonder. Later on you will rejoin us, and Homo, too.,'
Homo, hearing his name pronounced, wagged his tail softly against the deck.
"Father!" resumed the voice, "you understand that once Gwynplaine is no longer here, all is over. Even if I would remain, I could not, because one must breathe. We must not ask for that which is impossible. I was with Gwynplaine. It was quite natural, I lived. Now Gwynplaine is no more, I die. The two things are alike: either he must come or I must go. Since he can not come back, I am going to him. It is good to die. It is not at all difficult. Father, that which is extinguished here shall be rekindled elsewhere. It is a heartache to live in this world. It can not be that we shall always be unhappy. When we go to what you call the stars, we shall marry, we shall never part again, and we shall love, love, love; and that is what is God."
"There, there, do not agitate yourself," said Ursus.
The voice continued:
"Well, for instance; last year. In the spring of last year we were together and we were happy. How different it is now! I forget what little village we were in, but there were trees, and I heard the linnets singing. We came to London; all was changed. This is no reproach, mind. When one comes to a fresh place, how is one to know anything about it? Father, do you remember that one day there was a woman in the great box; you said: 'It is a duchess.' I felt sad. I think it might have been better had we kept to the little towns. Gwynplaine has done right, withal. Now my turn has come. Besides, you have told me yourself that when I was very little my mother died, and that I was lying on the ground with the snow falling upon me, and that he, who was also very little then, and alone, like myself, picked me up, and that it was thus that I came to be alive; so you can not wonder that now I should feel it absolutely necessary to go and search the grave to see if Gwynplaine be in it. Because the only thing which exists in life is the heart; and after life, the soul. You take notice of what I say, father, do you not? What is moving? It seems as if we are in something that is moving, yet I do not hear the sound of the wheels."
After a pause the voice added:
"I can not exactly make out the difference between yesterday and to-day. I do not complain. I do not know what has occurred; but something must have happened."
These words, uttered with deep and inconsolable sweetness, and with a sigh which Gwynplaine heard, wound up thus:
"I must go, unless he should return."
Ursus muttered gloomily: "I do not believe in ghosts."
He went on:
"This is a ship. You ask why the house moves, it is because we are on board a vessel. Be calm; you must not talk so much. Daughter, if you have any love for me, do not agitate yourself, it will make you feverish. I am so old, I could not bear it if you were to have an illness. Spare me! do not be ill!"
Again the voice spoke:
"What is the use of searching the earth when we can only find in heaven?"
Ursus replied, with a half attempt at authority:
"Be calm. There are times when you have no sense at all. I order you to rest. After all, you can not be expected to know what it is to rupture a blood-vessel. I should be easy if you were easy. My child, do something for me as well. If he picked you up, I took you in. You will make me ill. That is wrong. You must calm yourself, and go to sleep. All will come right. I give you my word of honour, all will come right. Besides, it is very fine weather. The night might have been made on purpose. To-morrow we shall be at Rotterdam, which is a city in Holland, at the mouth of the Reuse."
"Father," said the voice, "look here; when two beings have always been together from infancy, their state should not be disturbed, or death must come, and it can not be otherwise. I love you all the same, but I feel that I am no longer altogether with you, although I am as yet not altogether with him."
"Come! try to sleep," repeated Ursus.
The voice answered:
"I shall have sleep enough soon."
Ursus replied, in trembling tones:
"I tell you that we are going to Holland, to Rotterdam, which is a city."
"Father," continued the voice, "I am not ill; if you are anxious about that, you may rest easy. I have no fever. I am rather hot; it is nothing more."
Ursus stammered out:
"At the mouth of the Meuse----"
"I am quite well, father; but look here! I feel that I am going to die!"
"Do nothing so foolish," said Ursus. And he added, "Above all, God forbid she should have a shock!"
There was a silence. Suddenly Ursus cried out:
"What are you doing? Why are you getting up? Lie down again, I implore of you."
Gwynplaine shivered, and stretched out his head.
* * *
III
PARADISE REGAINED BELOW
HE SAW DEA. She had just raised herself up on the mattress. She had on a long white dress, carefully closed, and showing only the delicate form of her neck. The sleeves covered her arms, the folds, her feet. The branch-like tracery of blue veins, hot and swollen with fever, were visible on her hands. She was shivering and rocking, rather than reeling, to and fro, like a reed. The lantern threw up its glancing light on her beautiful face. Her loosened hair floated over her shoulders. No tears fell on her cheeks. In her eyes there was fire, and darkness. She was pale, with that paleness which is like the transparency of a divine life in an earthly face. Her fragile and exquisite form was, as it were, blended and interfused with the folds of her robe. She wavered like the flicker of a flame, while, at the same time, she was dwindling into shadow. Her eyes, opened wide, were resplendent. She was as one just freed from the sepulchre; a soul standing in the dawn.
Ursus, whose back only was visible to Gwynplaine, raised his arms in terror. "Oh! my child! Oh! heavens! she is delirious. Delirium is what I feared worst of all. She must have no shock, for that might kill her; yet nothing but a shock can prevent her going mad. Dead or mad! what a situation. O God! what can I do? My child, lie down again."
Meanwhile, Dea spoke. Her voice was almost indistinct, as if a cloud already interposed between her and earth.
"Father, you are wrong. I am not in the least delirious. I hear all you say to me, distinctly. You tell me that there is a great crowd of people, that they are waiting, and that I must play to-night. I am quite willing. You see that I have my reason; but I do not know what to do, since I am dead, and Gwynplaine is dead. I am coming all the same. I am ready to play. Here I am; but Gwynplaine is no longer here."
"Come, my child," said Ursus, "do as I bid you. Lie down again."
"He is no longer here, no longer here. Oh! how dark
"Dark," muttered Ursus. "This is the first time she has ever uttered that word!"
Gwynplaine, with as little noise as he could help making as he crept, mounted the step of the caravan, entered it, took from the nail the cape and the esclavine, put the esclavine round his neck, and redescended from the van, still concealed by the projection of the cabin, the rigging, and the mast. Dea continued murmuring. Sh
e moved her lips, and by degrees the murmur became a melody. In broken pauses, and with the interrupted cadences of delirium, her voice broke into the mysterious appeal she had so often addressed to Gwynplaine in Chaos Vanquished. She sang, and her voice was low and uncertain as the murmur of the bee:
Noche, quita te de alli,
El alba canta. . . . [1]
She stopped.
"No, it is not true. I am not dead. What was I saying? Alas! I am alive. I am alive. He is dead. I am below. He is above. He is gone. I remain. I shall hear his voice no more, nor his footstep. God, who had given us a little Paradise on earth, has taken it away. Gwynplaine, it is over. I shall never feel you near me again. Never! And his voice! I shall never hear his voice again.
And she sang:
Es menester a cielos ir----
Deja, quiero,
A tu negro
Caparazon. [2]
She stretched out her hand, as if she sought something in space on which she might rest.
Gwynplaine, rising by the side of Ursus, who had suddenly become as though petrified, knelt down before her.
"Never," said Dea, "never shall I hear him again."
She began, wandering, to sing again:
Deja, quiero,
A tu negro
Caparazon.
Then she heard a voice--even the beloved voice--answering.
O ven! ama!
Eres alma,
Soy corazon. [3]
And at the same instant Dea felt under her hand the head of Gwynplaine. She uttered an indescribable cry.
"Gwynplaine!"
A light, as of a star, shone over her pale face, and she tottered. Gwynplaine received her in his arms.
"Alive!" cried Ursus.
Dea repeated "Gwynplaine."
And with her head bowed against Gwynplaine's cheek, she whispered faintly,
"You have come down to me again; I thank you, Gwynplaine."
And seated on his knee, she lifted up her head. Wrapt in his embrace, she turned her sweet face toward him, and fixed on him those eyes so full of light and shadow, as though she could see him.
"It is you," she said.
Gwynplaine covered her sobs with kisses. There are words which are at once words, cries, and sobs, in which all ecstasy and all grief are mingled and burst forth together. They have no meaning, and yet tell all.
"Yes! it is! It is I, Gwynplaine, of whom you are the soul. Do you hear me? I, of whom you are the child, the wife, the star, the breath of life. I, to whom you are eternity. It is I. I am here. I hold you in my anns. I am alive. I am yours. Oh! when I think that in a moment all would have been over--one minute more, but for Homo! I will tell you everything. How near is despair to joy! Dea, we live. Dea, forgive me. Yes. Yours forever. You are right. Touch my forehead. Make sure that it is I. If you only knew--but nothing cap separate us now. I rise out of hell, and ascend into heaven. Am I not with you? You said that I descended. Not so; I reascend. Once more with you! Forever! I tell you forever. Together! We are together! Who would have believed it? We have found each other again. All our troubles are past. Before us now there is nothing but enchantment. We will renew our happy life, and we will shut the door so fast that misfortune shall never enter again. I will tell you all. You will be astonished. The vessel has sailed. No one can prevent that now. We are on our voyage, and at liberty. We are going to Holland. We will marry. I have no fear about gaining a livelihood. What can hinder it? There is nothing to fear. I adore you!"
"Not so quick!" stammered Ursus.
Dea, trembling, and with the rapture of an angelic touch, passed her hand over Gwynplaine's profile.
He overheard her say to herself:
"It is thus that gods are made."
Then she touched his clothes.
"The esclavine," she said, "the cape. Nothing changed. All as it was before."
Ursus, stupefied, delighted, smiling, drowned in tears, looked at them, and addressed an aside to himself:
"I don't understand it in the least. I am a stupid idiot--I, who saw him carried to the grave! I cry, and I laugh. That is all I know. I am as great a fool as if I were in love myself. But that is just what I am. I am in love with them both. Old fool! Too much emotion. Too much emotion. It is what I was afraid of. No, it is that I wished for. Gwynplaine, be careful of her. Yes, let them kiss! it is no affair of mine. I am but a spectator. What I feel is droll. I am the parasite of their happiness, and I am nourished by it."
While Ursus was talking to himself, Gwynplaine exclaimed----
"Dea, you are too beautiful! I don't know where my wits were gone these few last days. Truly, there is but you on earth. I see you again, but as yet I can hardly believe it. In this ship! But tell me, how did it all happen? To what a state have they reduced you. But where is the Green Box? They have robbed you. They have driven you away. It is infamous. Oh! I will avenge you. I will avenge you, Dea. They shall answer for it. I am a peer of England."
Ursus, as if stricken by a planet full in his breast, drew back, and looked at Gwynplaine attentively.
"It is clear that he is not dead; but can he have gone mad?" and he listened to him doubtfully.
Gwynplaine resumed.
"Be easy, Dea; I will carry my complaint to the House of Lords."
Ursus looked at him again, and struck his forehead with the tip of his forefinger. Then making up his mind:
"It is all one to me," he said. "It will be all right, all the same. Be as mad as you like, my Gwynplaine. It is one of the rights of man. As for me, I am happy; but how came all this about?"
The vessel continued to sail smoothly and fast. The night grew darker and darker. The mists, which came inland from the ocean, were invading the zenith, from which no wind blew them away. Only a few large stars were visible, and they disappeared one after another, so that soon there were none at all, and the whole sky was dark, infinite, and soft. The river broadened until the banks on each side were nothing but two thin brown lines mingling with the gloom. Out of all this shadow rose a profound peace. Gwynplaine, half seated, held Dea in his embrace. They spoke, they cried, they babbled, they murmured in a mad dialogue of joy! How are we to paint thee, O joy!
"My life!"
"My heaven!"
"My love!"
"My whole happiness!"
"Gwynplaine!"
"Dea, I am drunk. Let me kiss your feet."
"Is it you, then, for certain!"
"I have so much to say to you now that I do not know where to begin."
"One kiss!"
"O, my wife!"
"Gwynplaine, do not tell me that I am beautiful. It is you who are handsome."
"I have found you again. I hold you to my heart. This is true. You are mine. I do not dream. Is it possible? Yes, it is. I recover possession of life. If you only knew! I have met with all sorts of adventures, Dea!"
"Gwynplaine, I love you!"
And Ursus murmured:
"Mine is the joy of a grandfather."
Homo, having come from under the van, was going from one to the other discreetly, exacting no attention, licking them left and right--now Ursus's thick shoes, now Gwynplaine's cape, now Dea's dress, now the mattress. This was his way of giving his blessing.
They had passed Chatham and the mouth of the Medway. They were approaching the sea. The shadowy serenity of the atmosphere was such that the passage down the Thames was being made without trouble: no manoeuvre was needful, nor was any sailor called on deck. At the other end of the vessel the skipper, still alone, was steering. There was only this man aft. At the bow the lantern lighted up the happy group of beings who, from the depths of misery, had suddenly been raised to happiness by a meeting so unhoped-for.
[1] Night, away! the dawn sings.
[2] We must go to heaven.
Throw off, I entreat thee,
Thy black cloak.
[3] O, come, and love!
Thou art the soul,
I am the heart.
* * *<
br />
IV
NAY; ON HIGH!
SUDDENLY DEA, disengaging herself from Gwynplaine's embrace, arose. She pressed both her hands against her heart, as if to still its throbbings.
"What is wrong with me?" she said. "There is something the matter. Joy is suffocating. No, it is nothing! That is lucky. Your reappearance, O my Gwynplaine, has given me a blow--a blow of happiness. All this heaven of joy which you have put into my heart has intoxicated me. You being absent, I felt myself dying. The true life which was leaving me you have brought back. I felt as if something was being torn away within me. It is the shadows that have been torn away, and I feel life dawn in my brain--a glowing life, a life of fever and delight. This life which you have just given me is wonderful. It is so heavenly that it makes me suffer somewhat. It seems as though my soul is enlarged, and can scarcely be contained in my body. This life of seraphim, this plenitude, flows into my brain, and penetrates it. I feel like a beating of wings within my breast. I feel strangely, but happy. Gwynplaine, you have been my resurrection."
She flushed, became pale, then flushed again, and fell.
"Alas!" said Ursus, "you have killed her."
Gwynplaine stretched his arms toward Dea. Extremity of anguish coming upon extremity of ecstasy, what a shock! He would himself have fallen, had he not had to support her.
"Dea!" he cried, shuddering, "what is the matter?"
"Nothing," said she, "I love you!"
She lay in his arms, lifeless, like a piece of linen; her hands were hanging down helplessly.
Gwynplaine and Ursus placed Dea on the mattress. She said, feebly:
"I can not breathe lying down."
They lifted her up.
Ursus said:
"Fetch a pillow."
She replied:
"What for? I have Gwynplaine!"
She laid her head on Gwynplaine's shoulder, who was sitting behind, and supporting her, his eyes wild with grief.