Ernest. I soil you!
Teodora. Exactly.
Ernest. I! [Pause.] What does she mean, Almighty God! She also! Oh, it is not possible! Oh, death is preferable to this—It cannot be true—I am raving—Say it is not true, Teodora—only one word—for justice—one word of pardon, of pity, of consolation, madam. I am resigned to go away, never to see you again, although 'twere to break, and mutilate, and destroy my life. But it will, at least, be bearable if I may carry into solitude your forgiveness, your affection, your esteem—only your pity, then. So that I still may think you believe me loyal and upright—that I could not, that I have not degraded you, much less be capable of insulting you. I care nothing about the world, and despise its affronts. Its passions inspire me with the profoundest disdain. Whether its mood be harsh or cruel, however it may talk of me and of what has happened, it will never think so ill of me as I do of it. But you, the purest dream of man's imagining—you for whom I would gladly give,—not only my life, but my right to heaven, ay, a thousand times—eagerly, joyously,—You, to suspect me of treason, of hypocrisy! Oh, this, Teodora—I cannot bear! [Deeply moved, speaks despairingly.]
Teodora. [With increasing nervousness.] You have not understood me, Ernest. We must part.
Ernest. But not like this!
Teodora. Quickly, for mercy's sake. Julian suffers. [Points to the sick-room.]
Ernest. I know it.
Teodora. Then we should not forget it.
Ernest. No; but I also suffer.
Teodora. You, Ernest! why?