Juana. 'We looked about for a child. I cannot write any more. Juana knows the secret. She will tell you all. Once more, I implore you to forgive me. Farewell, Lorenzo, and may God counsel you. I loved you like a son, though you were no child of ours.'
Don Lorenzo. I—I—was not—what does it mean? Not her son? I bear a name that is not mine! For forty years have I enjoyed a fortune that belonged to others. I have robbed everything—social position, name and wealth. All, all! Even my mother's caresses, since she was not my mother,—even her kisses, since I was not her son. No, no. This is not possible. I am not so base. Juana, Juana, for the love you bear the God above, tell me the truth. Look, it is not for my own sake—what does it matter what happens to me?—but for my family's sake—for those unfortunate women—for my dear child's sake, my beloved Inés, who will die of it, and you see, I cannot let her die. [Bursts into desperate sobs.]
Juana. That is true. But hush! Who need know of it? and then it will not matter.
Don Lorenzo. But if it be true?
Juana. [In a low voice.] It is true.
Don Lorenzo. It seems a lie. That woman who cherished me so tenderly was not my mother?
Juana. No. Your mother loved you still more.
Don Lorenzo. Who was she, then?
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. What was her name?