You know very well that no gallant man should move an eyelash at such a question.
The Marshal.
You do not love her--only like a faun you make bold to court her madly. (Taking hold of him.) But I love her, and for this reason, you must die.
The Painter.
Forgive me if I am surprised at your logic. It is a great honour for me to know whom you love; moreover, you have already told me repeatedly that I must die; yet that you are confused as to this--is--indeed--only--temper. And see, it is but proper that you love her. The contrary--according to court manners and practice--would be unnatural. Yet the more important question seems to be: does she love you? You look away. Very well, I will tell you. She has met you with smiles and furtive questions, with sweet glances, half longingly, has promised you a thousand delights and gradually has subdued you and your obstinacy. Yet if it involved keeping her promises, she would understand how to wrap herself in her innocence.----It was so--was it not? You are silent, because you are ashamed of the game. Pardon me, sir, if I irritate your wounds.
The Marshal.
It seems you set spies at the door!
The Painter.
Why spies? Eve's old practice, that, Marshal, I know well. Yet what lies behind it, whether true love or not, for you or me, cannot be deciphered. If I should survive the duel, she would probably love me: yet because it is decreed that by your arm, you should be the victor in this absurd quarrel, she will love you, Marshal. Where woman's glory rules the world, that is the law--so says natural history. Do you say nothing?
The Marshal.