Man.Giuseppe, prepare
The little room at the end of the corridor;
I will sleep there. I shall not want thee more.
[Exit servant.
It matters not what happens, day by day
The rupture grows. ’Tis plain Hugo and I
Are foes at heart—and what a pitiful trick
To put the question of my marriage by,
Withholding his consent just for the thought,
That while my happiness hangs on his nod,