Dol. Not very long. (To Teresa.) Go: I shall open it.
[Exit Teresa.
Dolores opens the balcony.
So! Air—the air of night—space—freshness—that which is pure—that which is great—that which does not revolt one—that which dilates the lungs—that which expands the soul! To have a very broad horizon which one may fill with hopes, and to run towards those hopes! At least hope! Hope! Oh! I cannot complain. I have my Lazarus—then I have everything.
Car. (putting her head from time to time through the curtain). May I come out?
Dol. No, not yet; wait—quiet, my little one. (Walking from the balcony to the fireplace.) To have my son! But without him ever having had a father—above all, that father! Oh, if my Lazarus had sprung spontaneously from my love! Even as—as the wave of the sea or the light of the sun springs forth. After all, let me not complain—even if he resembled—though he does not resemble—his father, Lazarus is mine and mine only. How good! How noble. What intellect! What a heart! Oh, what it is to have such a son!
Car. May I come in?
Dol. Ah, yes—wait though—I shall first shut the balcony. (Shuts it.) Come in.
Car. That’s very different. (Breathing with pleasure.)