"At this hour to-morrow, be at the corner of London Bridge. I will be there to conduct you—"
"Whither?" demanded Gwynplaine.
"Where you are expected."
Gwynplaine glanced down at the letter, which he was holding mechanically in his hand. When he looked up, the page was no longer near him. He perceived a shadowy form rapidly disappearing in the distance. It was the little valet. He turned the corner of the street, and solitude reigned again. When Gwynplaine saw the page vanish, he again looked at the letter. There are moments in our lives when what happens seems but the figment of a dream. Surprise keeps us for a moment oblivious to the real facts.
Gwynplaine raised the letter, as if to read it, but soon perceived that he could not do so for two reasons,—first, because he had not broken the seal; and, secondly, because it was too dark. It was some minutes before he remembered that there was a lamp at the inn. He took a few steps sideways, as if he knew not whither he was going. A somnambulist to whom a phantom had just given a letter might walk as he did. At last he made up his mind. He ran, rather than walked, towards the inn, paused in the light which streamed through the half-open door, and again examined the closed letter by it. There was no design on the seal, and on the envelope was written, "To Gwynplaine." He broke the seal, tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter, put it directly in the light, and read as follows:
You are hideous; I am beautiful. You are a player; I am a duchess. I am of the highest; you, of the lowest; nevertheless I love you! Come!
