It could not be.
"Try! Try! Resist! Resist! Struggle! Struggle!" said hope and duty and love; and I tried, I resisted, I struggled.

And still I was bound in chains; still I was held by a mysterious occult power.
Then it ceased to feel to be a duty to rid Gertrude of Voltaire.

Why should I struggle and resist?
Supposing I succeeded, was I any more fit to be her husband than he?
What was I?
At best a poor weak creature, the plaything of a villain.

At any time he could exert his power and make me his slave.

But I might be worse than that.