Raph. Yes, yes, oh, yes! Don’t you know—they are waiting for me.
Marco. Take my carriage.
Raph. (With scorn.) No, no (with a maniac smile): I shall walk, walk. (Bitterly.) Poverty should walk: the weather is superb (endeavoring to be gay)—and (his forces nearly abandoning him)—my heart—is so light—I—I (staggering to table, and taking his hat)—Adieu, Mademoiselle Marco, adieu (faintly)—adieu, adieu! (Staggers off, L.)
Marco. (Rising from sofa, and looking after him with deep emotion.) O Raphael, Raphael! my heart is not quite marble; no, no, not quite! (Falls back on sofa, covers her face with her handkerchief, and weeps.)
Re-enter Raphael.
Marco. (With a smile, holding out her hand.) Thank you for returning; thank you for not taking my follies in earnest: this goodness endears you to me more than ever. (Raphael stands fixed, looking at her with a cold, immovable countenance.) You love me still? (Trying to draw him to her.) Yes, yes: I see you do; and you will pardon me! (She is about to put her arm round his neck: he looks sternly at her, and repels her by extending his arms with an action of disdain.) Oh! do not look at me thus: you frighten me—
Raph. (With terrible calmness.) Give me my portrait. (Pointing to it on her neck.)
Marco. Nay, I am sure—
Raph. (Sternly.) Give it me! (Marco gives it him.) Don’t be alarmed, it is only the painting I reclaim. (Taking it from the frame.) I leave you the diamonds. (Gives back the frame and chain.)
Marco. Raphael!