'Lorenzo, my son, in the casket which lies at the head of my bed there is hidden a paper under a sealed envelope. When I am dead, open it, and read what I wrote during a night of sharp remorse. Forgive me, and may God inspire you.'
Don Lorenzo. [In surprise.] 'Forgive me, and may God inspire you.' She wrote that?
Juana. Yes.
Don Lorenzo. You also made strange mention of remorse. [With increasing curiosity.]
Juana. Remorse was the word. Now go away if you like.
Don Lorenzo. [Thinking.] No. [Pause.] And that paper?
Juana. It was no secret for me that your mother had written it. Where it was hidden was what I did not know. That there was something hidden in the locket a vigilance so alert as mine had easily discovered, and what the paper contained misgiving helped me to divine. That was why I took the locket. It was mine by right. It had cost me twenty years of tears and anguish, than which none more bitter or intolerable have ever been shed.
Don Lorenzo. Forgiveness, remorse, a secret—and my mother! I cannot imagine what you would say. Confused shades gather and drift before my mind, and pain strikes my heart in lightning flashes. You are raving, and you make me rave too.
Juana. No, no.
Don Lorenzo. But that secret paper in the casket
Juana. It was mine, and you did not see it because it was not right you should see it. Since your mother was dead, what could it matter to her? Have I not said it,—there is nothing more selfish than death?
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