Yanetta. Oh, forgive me!
Etchepare. Never! Never!
Yanetta. Don't say that word—only God has the right to say—never! I will come back to you. I'll be only like the head servant—no, the lowest if you like! I won't take my place in the home again until you tell me to.
Etchepare. We have no house; we have no home. Nothing is left now! And I tell you again it's your fault—and it's because you used to be there, in the mother's place, my mother's place, you, a lie and a sacrilege—it's because of that that misfortune has overtaken us!
Yanetta. I swear to you I'd make you forget it all in time—I'd be so humble, so devoted, so repentant. And wherever you go I shall follow you. Pierre—think, your children still need me.
Etchepare. My children! You shall never see them again! You shall never speak to them. I won't have you kiss them. I won't have you even touch them!
Yanetta [changing her tone] Ah, no, not that, not that! The children! No, you are wrong there! You can deprive me of everything—you can put every imaginable shame upon me—you can force me to beg my bread—I'll do it willingly. You needn't look at me—you needn't speak to me except to abuse me—you can do anything, anything you like. But my children, my children—they are mine, the fruit of my body—they are still part of me—they are blood of my blood and bone of my bone forever. You might cut off one of my arms, and my arm would be a dead thing, and no part of myself any more, but you can't stop my children being my children.
Etchepare. You have made yourself unworthy to keep them.
Yanetta. Unworthy! What has unworthiness to do with it? Have I ever failed in my duty to them? Have I been a bad mother? Answer me! I haven't, have I? Well then, if I haven't been a bad mother, my rights over them are as great as ever they were! Unworthy! I might be a thousand times more guilty—more unworthy, as you call it—but neither you, nor the law, nor the priests, nor God himself would have the right to take them from me. I have been to blame as a wife, it's possible, but as a mother I've nothing to reproach myself with. Well then—well then—no one can steal them from me! And you, who could think of such a thing, you're a wretch! Yes, it's to avenge yourself that you want to part me from them! You're just a coward! Just a man! There's no fatherhood left in your heart—you don't think of them. Yes—you are lying—I tell you, you are lying! When you say I'm not worthy to bring them up you're lying! It's only a saying—only words. You know it isn't true—you know I've nourished them, cared for them, loved them, consoled them, and I have taught them to say their prayers every night, and I would go on doing so. You know that no other woman will ever fill my place—but that makes no difference to you. You forget them—you want to punish me, so you want to take them from me. I'm justified in saying to you that it's an act of cowardly wickedness and a vile piece of vengeance! Ah! The children! You want to gamble with them now. No—to take them away from me—think, Pierre, think; it isn't possible, what you are saying!
Etchepare. You are right; I am revenging myself! What you think an impossibility is done already. My mother has taken the children and gone away with them.