Ernest. Is this contempt?
Teodora. Go.
Ernest. Go? in this way?
Teodora. My husband is dying in there—and here I feel as if I too were dying. [Staggers back and clutches the arm-chair to keep from falling.]
Ernest. Teodora. [Rushes forward to support her.]
Teodora. [Angrily drawing herself away.] Don't touch me. [Pause.] Ah, I breathe again more freely. [Tries to walk, staggers again weakly, and a second time Ernest offers to assist her. She repulses him.]
Ernest. Why not, Teodora?
Teodora. Your touch would soil me.
Ernest. I soil you!
Teodora. Exactly.
Ernest. I! [Pause.] What does she mean, Almighty God! She also! Oh, it is not possible! Oh, death is preferable to this—It cannot be true—I am raving—Say it is not true, Teodora—only one word—for justice—one word of pardon, of pity, of consolation, madam. I am resigned to go away, never to see you again, although 'twere to break, and mutilate, and destroy my life. But it will, at least, be bearable if I may carry into solitude your forgiveness, your affection, your esteem—only your pity, then. So that I still may think you believe me loyal and upright—that I could not, that I have not degraded you, much less be capable of insulting you. I care nothing about the world, and despise its affronts. Its passions inspire me with the profoundest disdain. Whether its mood be harsh or cruel, however it may talk of me and of what has happened, it will never think so ill of me as I do of it. But you, the purest dream of man's imagining—you for whom I would
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