Berm. You have not understood me. I am sorry for you, Lazarus, because I have given you—a shock—a bad time of it, without cause—believe me, without any cause. God help me, these dramatic authors—no, one is not safe with them! (Wishing to turn the matter off with a laugh.)
Laz. Let us be calm, let us be calm. I want the truth; there still remains to me some glimmer of reason, and I can understand what you say to me. Ha! the truth—Bermudez, the truth! It is the last truth that I can understand, and I wish to enjoy it. (Rising.) Out with it! I still understand—yes—still!
Berm. Friend Lazarus! By all the saints of the heavenly court!——
Laz. No, I still keep my senses; I shall explain to you all that has passed. My mother, pretending to inquire about another, inquired about me; I, pretending to be interested on another’s account, was interested on my own, and a poor mother and a lost wretch have between them cajoled a wise man. Ah! cajoled—no: pardon. We wished to know the truth—nothing more; but as the truth is treacherous, it is necessary at times to drag it forth by treason. I humbly beg that you will pardon us—my mother—and myself.
Berm. I tell you that I cannot recover from my surprise; that I am cut to the heart for having spoken with such levity. I have already told you that my opinion was haphazard—quite haphazard—without examination of the patient. (Seeking where to go.)
Laz. Well, here is the patient. Don’t I tell you that I am the man? Oh, have no fear: I am a man capable of looking face to face upon death, and of answering the grimace of madness with another grimace even more grotesque. While a heart remains to me, the head will obey.
Berm. For God’s sake, calm yourself. All this is not serious.
Laz. I am perfectly calm; I am still master of myself. Sit down. (Makes him take a seat.) Let us talk quietly. Tell me all, but in a low voice, that my mother may not know; that she may not know. And of my father, not a word! Of my father—no, enough—nothing! I have been a madman in Madrid, so that the madness is mine. It is all mine! Oh! you deny that it is all mine? That is not right, Señor de Bermudez. Take to yourself the accusation that it is not right. You deny me my own reason, and you even wish to deprive me of my own madness, saying—saying—that my father—silence! Well, my reason may not belong to me: patience! But my madness belongs to me; I swear to you that it belongs to me, and I shall defend it—I shall defend it, Bermudez! (Advances upon the physician. Then restrains himself.) And now, let us talk soberly of myself—of my suffering.
Berm. Señor de Mejia, dear Lazarus—as for what I told you a while since, it was purely hypothetical; now that I know you, I modify my opinion in every point.
Laz. (with a mocking smile). Indeed? By God, Señor de Bermudez, that I am a madman we’ll let pass; but I am not yet an idiot.