Teodora. You persist! Ever this accursed idea!—while it is with immense, with infinite pity that I am filled.
Mercedes. For whom?
Teodora. For whom else but Julian?
Mercedes. Have you never learnt, Teodora, that in a woman's heart pity and forgetfulness may mean one and the same thing?
Teodora. I beseech you—Mercedes—silence!
Mercedes. I wish to let light in upon the state of your mind,—to turn upon it the lamp of truth, lit by my experience.
Teodora. I hear you, but while I listen, it seems no longer a sister, a friend, a mother that speaks to me, so hateful are your words. Your lips seem to speak at inspiration of the devil's prompting. Why should you strive to convince me that little by little I am ceasing to love my husband, and that more and more I am imbued with an impure tenderness, with a feeling that burns and stains? I who love Julian as dearly as ever, who would give the last drop of blood in my body for a single breath of life for him—for him, from whom I am now separated—[points to his room]—why, I should like to go in there this moment, if your husband did not bar my way, and press Julian once more in my arms. I would so inundate him with my tears, and so close him round with the passion of my love, that its warmth would melt his doubts, and his soul would respond to the fervour of mine. But it is not because I adore my husband that I am bound to abhor the faithful and generous friend who so nobly risked his life for me. And if I don't hate him, is that a reason to conclude that I love him? The world can think such things. I hear such strange stories, and such sad events have happened, and calumny has so embittered me, that I find myself wondering if public opinion can be true,—in doubt of myself. Can it be that I really am the victim of a hideous passion, unconsciously influenced by it? and in some sad and weak moment shall I yield to the senses, and be subjugated by this tyrannous fire?
Mercedes. You are speaking the truth?
Teodora. Can you doubt it?
Mercedes. You really do not love him?