Pierre (bursting out).
What is your fear compared to what I had to stand! Compared to my biting, nauseous shame as I sat there opposite him?--I scorned the man inwardly, and yet I felt as if I ought to lick the dust on his boots. When mamma said to him, "You don't look very well, Herr Wittich--are you ill?"--her words were like the box on the ear that she gave me when, as a lad of fifteen, I got into mischief with the steward's daughter.--Why did you drag me into this loathsome business? I don't like it!--I won't stand it!--I like to feel straight! I want my hands clean!--I want to look down on the people that I meet!--I owe that to myself.
Julia.
Reproaches?--I'd like to know who has the guilty conscience in this case, you or I?
Pierre.
How long have you been concerned about your conscience?
Julia.
Pierre, you know I had never belonged to any other man--except him.
Pierre.
But you've showered sweet glances right and left. You've flirted with every man who would look at you--even the stable-boy wasn't beneath your notice!