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‘Barbara–you look ill,’ he said, removing his glove, and taking her hand.

‘Yes–I have been ill,’ said she.

‘Is this pretty little house ours?’

‘O–yes.’ She was hardly conscious of her words, for the hand he had ungloved in order to take hers was contorted, and had one or two of its fingers missing; while through the mask she discerned the twinkle of one eye only.

‘I would give anything to kiss you, dearest, now, at this moment!’ he continued, with mournful passionateness. ‘But I cannot–in this guise. The servants are abed, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ said she. ‘But I can call them? You will have some supper?’

He said he would have some, but that it was not necessary to call anybody at that hour. Thereupon they approached the table, and sat down, facing each other.

Despite Barbara’s scared state of mind, it was forced upon her notice that her husband trembled, as if he feared the impression he was producing, or was about to produce, as much as, or more than, she. He drew nearer, and took her hand again.

‘I had this mask made at Venice,’ he began, in evident embarrassment. ‘My darling Barbara–my dearest wife–do you think you–will mind when I take it off? You will not dislike me–will you?’

‘O Edmond, of course I shall not mind,’ said she. ‘What has happened to you is our misfortune; but I am prepared for it.’

‘Are you sure you are prepared?’

‘O yes! You are my husband.’

‘You really feel quite confident that nothing external can affect you?’ he said again, in a voice rendered uncertain by his agitation.

‘I think I am–quite,’ she answered faintly.

He bent his head. ‘I hope, I hope you are,’ he whispered.

In the pause which followed, the ticking of the clock in the hall seemed to grow loud; and he turned a little aside to remove the mask. She breathlessly awaited the operation, which was one of some tediousness, watching him one moment, averting her face the next; and when it was done she shut her eyes at the hideous spectacle that was revealed. A quick spasm of horror had passed through her; but though she quailed she forced herself to regard him anew, repressing the cry that would naturally have escaped from her ashy lips. Unable to look at him longer, Barbara sank down on the floor beside her chair, covering her eyes.

‘You cannot look at me!’ he groaned in a hopeless way. ‘I am too terrible an object even for you to bear! I knew it; yet I hoped against it. Oh, this is a bitter fate–curse the skill of those Venetian surgeons who saved me alive! . . . Look up, Barbara,’ he continued beseechingly; ‘view me completely; say you loathe me, if you do loathe me, and settle the case between us for ever!’

His unhappy wife pulled herself together for a desperate strain. He was her Edmond; he had done her no wrong; he had suffered. A momentary devotion to him helped her, and lifting her eyes as bidden she regarded this human remnant, this ecorche, a second time. But the sight was too much. She again involuntarily looked aside and shuddered.

‘Do you think you can get used to this?’ he said. ‘Yes or no! Can you bear such a thing of the charnel-house near you? Judge for yourself; Barbara. Your Adonis, your matchless man, has come to this!’

The poor lady stood beside him motionless, save for the restlessness of her eyes. All her natural sentiments of affection and pity were driven clean out of her by a sort of panic; she had just the same sense of dismay and fearfulness that she would have had in the presence of an apparition. She could nohow fancy this to be her chosen one–the man she had loved; he was metamorphosed to a specimen of another species. ‘I do not loathe you,’ she said with trembling. ‘But I am so horrified–so overcome! Let me recover myself. Will you sup now? And while you do so may I go to my room to–regain my old feeling for you? I will try, if I may leave you awhile? Yes, I will try!’