“She is a woman without conscience; she is a woman who, to gain her miserable ends, will stop neither at falsehood, deceit nor bloodshed. Do you want me to tell you more? She is—”
“Maurice, tell me nothing which will cause me to regret your friendship. I love her; she has promised to be my wife.”
“She will ruin you.”
“She has already done that,” laconically.
“Do you mean to tell me—”
“Yes! For the promise of her love I am dishonored. For the privilege of kissing her lips I have sold my honor. To call her mine, I would go through hell. God! do you know what it is to be lonely, to starve in God-forsaken lands, to dream of women, to long for them?”
“And the poor paralytic king?”
“What is he to me?”
“And your father?”
“What are my dead father's wishes? Maurice, I am mad!”