But there's no other way sometimes for those
Who would be wholly true.
And yet ... do I owe any truth to him?
Petrarca. To—Ugo di Sade?
Laura (bitterly). Who is called my husband?
How I was bound to him, you know! and how
I've dwelt and have endured more than his bursts
Of burning cruelty. For still, I thought,
He is my husband!
And still—He is my husband!...
But now no more I think it—oh! no more!
Too visible it is
That he belongs to any—who sell love.
So I may innocently say to you[28]
Who for two years have sung my name
Yet never once have turned unto another—
(Petrarca pales.)
I well may say ...
(Stopped by his manner.)
There's something that you ... Ah!
(Sees, stricken, his grief and shame. Then her glance goes round the room and falls on the wine-table ... Then Sancia is heard within:)
Sancia. Well, well, Messer Petrarca! How long will
You shut us in this dark—that is as black
As old Pope John the twenty-second's soul?
A pretty festa, this![29]
Petrarca (brokenly). Merciless God!