Jean—No, dear, no! Here I am, by your side.
Angelica—Am I turned blind?
Jean—O, no, it was because your eyes had rested for a moment on the light of the gateway and when you turned to me you could not bear the contrast of the darkness. But look and see! In this new light can you not see me better?
Angelica—I—see—you—better. (She slowly draws back with a frightened look in her eyes) I never saw you look like that!
Jean—I never saw you look so beautiful, Angelica.
Angelica—I never saw you look so—like this. O, who is this? Who are you? (almost crying) Where is my Jean?
Jean—Why, what is the matter? I am Jean! Put your hand on my face and you will find that I am Jean, just the same as always. (She lays her delicate hand on his brow and draws it down over his eyes and lips, then draws it away with a long sigh and closes her eyes; he snatches her hand back and kisses it passionately.) Ah, Aho is it now? (breathlessly.) Is it Jean, or is it not Jean?
Angelica—It is Jean that kissed me. It is not Jean that my eyes rest on. Your face has a thousand things in it that I never saw before. There are lines and wrinkles and furrows; there are shadows and shrinkings; there are marks and scars; there are pains and miseries. I did not know you were so sad and burdened and broken-hearted and miserable, and—
Jean—O what, O what?
Angelica—Is there shame? Are you ashamed of something? Have you done something wicked, some dreadful, dreadful wickedness?