the floor the parchment she had thrown down, she ran her eye over it. It
was the confession of the shipwrecked crew of the _Matutina_, embodied
in a report signed by the sheriff of Southwark and by the lord
chancellor.

Having perused the report, she read the queen's letter over again. Then
she said, "Be it so." And calmly pointing with her finger to the door of
the gallery through which he had entered, she added, "Begone."

Gwynplaine was petrified, and remained immovable. She repeated, in icy
tones, "Since you are my husband, begone." Gwynplaine, speechless, and
with eyes downcast like a criminal, remained motionless. She added, "You
have no right to be here; it is my lover's place." Gwynplaine was like a
man transfixed. "Very well," said she; "I must go myself. So you are my
husband. Nothing can be better. I hate you." She rose, and with an
indescribably haughty gesture of adieu left the room. The curtain in the
doorway of the gallery fell behind her.

CHAPTER V.

THEY RECOGNIZE, BUT DO NOT KNOW, EACH OTHER.

Gwynplaine was alone--alone, and in the presence of the tepid bath and
the deserted couch. The confusion in his mind had reached its
culminating point. His thoughts no longer resembled thoughts. They
overflowed and ran riot; it was the anguish of a creature wrestling with
perplexity. He felt as if he were awaking from a horrid nightmare. The
entrance into unknown spheres is no simple matter.

From the time he had received the duchess's letter, brought by the
page, a series of surprising adventures had befallen Gwynplaine, each
one less intelligible than the other. Up to this time, though in a
dream, he had seen things clearly. Now he could only grope his way. He
no longer thought, nor even dreamed. He collapsed. He sank down upon the
couch which the duchess had vacated.

Suddenly he heard a sound of footsteps, and those of a man. The noise
came from the opposite side of the gallery to that by which the duchess
had departed. The man approached, and his footsteps, though deadened by
the carpet, were clear and distinct. Gwynplaine, in spite of his
abstraction, listened.

Suddenly, beyond the silver web of curtain which the duchess had left
partly open, a door, evidently concealed by the painted glass, opened
wide, and there came floating into the room the refrain of an old French
song, carolled at the top of a manly and joyous voice,--

"Trois petits gorets sur leur fumier
Juraient comme de