Mario. If there ever was a virtuous woman!
Paolo. Woman or wife?
Mario. It is the same.
Paolo. No, no. A woman is for all; a wife for myself alone. Do you believe one marries a woman because she is virtuous? Never! I marry her because I love her and because I believe she loves me. There are a thousand virtuous women, there is one that I love, one alone who loves me ... if there is one....
Mario. Paolo!
Paolo. And if she loved him? Tell me—and if she loved him? And if she repulsed him for virtue's sake, for duty's sake? Tell me. What remains for me? If he was alive I could fight, I might win out. But he is dead—and has killed himself for love of her. If she loved him no force can tear him from her heart.
Mario. You think—?
Paolo. I do not know. It is that—I do not know. And I want to—I want to hear her shout it to my face. And she shall tell me.... Oh, I had the feeling the minute I had read the first letter. I did not then understand anything, indeed, I believed; "I love my husband." But I immediately felt a blow here—and it hurt me so! And I did not know what it was. Oh, before some fears assume shape, it takes time. First they gnaw, they gnaw and one does not know what they are. I was content.... I told you I was content, I wanted to persuade myself, but you have seen that fear gnaws at my heart. And if she loved him? Oh, surely! The more admirable eh? All the world would admire her. I, myself, would admire her upon my knees if she were the wife of another. But she is mine. I am not the judge of my wife. I am too intimately concerned, I cannot judge, I am the owner—she is mine—a thing of mine own. I must admire her because, while she could have cheated me altogether, she has only cheated me a little. I see that which she has robbed me of, not that which remains.
Mario. You are crazy!
Paolo. Do you not see that I am odious to her?