And he smiled. He had just burnt 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 felt his integrity as the eagle feels its wings.
It seemed to him as if his temptation had evaporated 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! Child's talk, worthy of Mother Goose or of Homer! With two loving hearts, go no further for poetry; with two kisses for dialogue, go no further for music.
"Do you know something?"
"No."
"Gwynplaine, I dreamt that we were animals, and had wings."
"Wings; that means birds," murmured Gwynplaine.
"Fools! it means angels," growled Ursus.