Man. Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I am not at home here—permit me to retire.
[Going.
Mar. [Crossing.] Stay, sir. As we happen to be alone, will you answer me fully and frankly, one question. They tell me my manner towards you is abrupt, unkind, even at times, offensive.
Man. I have never complained.
Mar. But you would leave us?
Man. Mademoiselle.
Mar. And they say that I am the cause. Your departure, sir, would occasion my mother sincere sorrow, which I am anxious to spare her, if it be in my power; but I am at a loss to know what explanation to make you—what am I to say? that the language which has offended you, is not always sincere—that perhaps, after all, I myself can appreciate joys and pleasures more exalted than those which the mere possession of wealth can give. Well, it is possible—but am I so much to blame, that I use my powers to stifle thoughts which are forbidden me.
Man. Forbidden?
Mar. Yes, forbidden. It may, perhaps, appear like affectation, to complain of a destiny which so many envy—but, like my mother, I believe that were I less rich, I should be the more happy. You have reproached me with my continual distrust. But in whom can I trust? I, who from my infancy have been surrounded—do I not know it too well—but by false friends, grasping relatives, and suspicious suitors! Do you suppose that I am weak and foolish enough to attribute to my own attractions, the care, the solicitude, with which so many of these parasites surround me; and even if a pure and noble heart, (should such a thing exist in this world,) were capable of seeking and loving me for what I am—not for what I have—I should never know it—[with meaning]—for I should never dare the risk! And this is why I shun, repulse, almost hate, all that is beautiful and good—all that speaks to me of that heaven, which is, alas! forbidden me. [The reapers are again heard singing in the distance—with emotion and in an undertone.] What is that?
[Listens—lets her head fall upon her hands, and weeps.