Bending forward, GUIDO draws from his jewel pack the string of pearls, and this he moodily contemplates, in order to evince his complete disinterestedness. The pose has its effect. GRACIOSA looks at him for a moment, rises, draws a deep breath, and speaks with a sort of humility.
GRACIOSA
And to what end, Guido? What good would weeping do?
GUIDO (Smiling whimsically.) I am afraid that men do not always love according to the strict laws of logic. (He drops the pearls, and, rising, follows her.) I desire your happiness above all things, yet to see you so abysmally untroubled by anything which troubles me is—another matter.
GRACIOSA
But I am not untroubled, Guido.
GUIDO
No?
GRACIOSA No. (Rather tremulously.) Sometimes I sit here dreading my life at court. I want never to leave my father's bleak house. I fear that I may not like the man who offers the highest price for me. And it seems as if the court were a horrible painted animal, dressed in bright silks, and shining with jewels, and waiting to devour me.
Beyond the wall appears a hat of scarlet satin with a divided brim, which, rising, is revealed to surmount the head of an extraordinarily swarthy person, to whose dark skin much powder has only loaned the hue of death: his cheeks, however, are vividly carmined. This is all that the audience can now see of the young DUKE of FLORENCE, whose proximity the two in the garden are just now too much engrossed to notice.
The DUKE looks from one to the other. His eyes narrow, his teeth are displayed in a wide grin; he now understands the situation. He lowers his head as GRACIOSA moves.
GRACIOSA No, I am not untroubled. For I cannot fathom you, and that troubles me. I am very fond of you—and yet I do not trust you.
GUIDO
You know that I love you.