Pepito. Well, here we are in a nice fix, and all for nothing! However, in spite of my uncle's belief, it was little short of madness to leave a resplendent creature under the same roof and in continual contact with a handsome fellow like Ernest, with a soul on fire, or given to romanticism. He swears there's nothing in it, and that his feeling for her is pure affection, that he loves her like a sister, and that my uncle is a father to him. But I am a sly fox, and, young as I am, I know a thing or two of this world. I've no faith in this sort of relations, when the brother is young and the sister is beautiful, and brotherhood between them a fiction. But suppose it were as he says, all square. What do outsiders know about that? Nobody is under any obligation to think the best of his fellows. The pair are seen everywhere together, and, seeing them, haven't their neighbours a right to talk? No, swears Ernest. We hardly ever went out alone. Once, perhaps? That's enough. If a hundred persons saw them on that occasion, it is quite the same as if they had been seen in public a hundred times. Good Lord! How are you going to confront all the witnesses to prove whether it was once or often they chose to give an airing to this pure sympathy and brotherly love? 'Tis absurd—neither just nor reasonable. What we see we may mention—'tis no lie to say it. 'I saw them once,' says one, 'and I,' another. One and one make two. 'And I also'—that makes three. And then a fourth, and a fifth, and so, summing which, you soon enough reach infinity. We see because we look, and our senses are there to help us to pass the time, without any thought of our neighbour. He must look out for himself, and remember that, if he shuns the occasion, calumny and peril will shun him. [Pause.] And take notice that I admit the purity of the affection, and this makes it so serious a matter. Now, in my opinion, the man who could be near Teodora, and not fall in love with her, must be a stone. He may be learned and philosophical, and know physics and mathematics, but he has a body like another, and she's there with a divine one, and, body of Bacchus! that's sufficient to found an accusation on. Ah! if these walls could speak. If Ernest's private thoughts, scattered here, could take tangible form! By Jove! what's this? An empty frame, and beside it Don Julian's likeness in its fellow. Teodora was there, the pendant of my respected uncle. Why has she disappeared? To avoid temptation? [Sits down at the table.] If that's the reason—it's bad. And still worse if the portrait has left its frame for a more honourable place near his heart. Come forth, suspected imps that float about, and weave invisible meshes. Ruthlessly denounce this mystic philosopher. [Looks about the table and sees the open Dante.] Here's another. I never come here but I find this divine book open on Ernest's table. The Divine Comedy! His favourite poem, and I note that he seems never to get beyond the Francesca page. I conceive two explanations of the fact. Either the fellow never reads it, or he never reads any other. But there's a stain, like a tear-drop. My faith! what mysteries and abysses! And what a difficult thing it is to be married and live tranquilly. A paper half burnt—[picks it up]—there's still a morsel left. [Goes over to the balcony trying to read it. At this moment Ernest enters, and stands watching him.]
SCENE V
Pepito and Ernest.
Ernest. What are you looking at?
Pepito. Hulloa! Ernest. Only a paper I caught on the wing. The wind blew it away.
Ernest. [Takes it and returns it after a short inspection.] I don't remember what it is.
Pepito. Verses. You may remember [reads with difficulty] 'The flame that consumes me.' [Aside.] Devora rhymes with Teodora.
Ernest. It is nothing important.
Pepito. No, nothing. [Throws away the paper.]
Ernest. That worthless bit of paper is a symbol of our life—a few sobs of sorrow, and a little flake of ashes.