Leon.—­It is too late to talk about that.  Too late!  You knew then and you know to-day that I could not have understood your words differently.  The other man was of your own world—­the world of which you were so fond that sometimes it seemed to me that you cherished it more than our love.  At times when I so doubted you did not calm me.  You were amused by the thought that you were stretching out to me a hand of courtly condescension, and I, in an excess of humiliation, I cast aside that hand.  You knew it then, and you know it to-day!

Jadwiga.—­I know it to-day, but I did not know then.  I swear it by my mother’s memory.  But suppose it was even as you say.  Why could you not forgive me?  Oh God! truly one might go mad.  And there was neither time nor opportunity to explain.  He went away and never returned.  What could I do?  When you became angry, when you shut yourself up within yourself, grief pressed my heart.  I am ashamed even to-day to say this.  I looked into your eyes like a dog which wishes to disarm the anger of his master by humility.  In vain!  Then I thought, when taking leave, I will shake hands with him so honestly and cordially that he will finally understand and will forgive me.  While parting my hand dropped, for you only saluted me from afar.  I swallowed my tears and humiliation.  I thought still he will return to-morrow.  A day passed, two days, a week, a month.

Leon.—­Then you married.

Jadwiga (passionately).—­Yes.  Useless tears and time made me think it was forever—­therefore anger grew in my heart—­anger and a desire for vengeance on you and myself.  I wished to be lost, for I said to myself, “That man does not love me, has never loved me.”  I married in the same spirit that I should have thrown myself through a window—­from despair—­because, as I still believe, you never loved me.

Leon.—­Madam, do not blaspheme.  Do not provoke me.  I never loved you!  Look at the precipice which you have opened before me—­count the sleepless nights during which I tore my breast with grief—­count the days on which I called to you as from a cross—­look at this thin face, at these trembling hands, and repeat once more that I never loved you!  What has become of me?  What is life for me without you?  To-day my head is crowned with laurels and here in my breast is emptiness and exhaustless sorrow, and tears not wept—­and in my eyes eternal darkness.  Oh, by the living God, I loved you with every drop of my blood, with my every thought—­and I was not able to love differently.  Having lost you, I lost everything—­my star, my strength, faith, hope, desire for life, and not only happiness, but the capacity for happiness.  Woman, do you understand the dreadful meaning of those words?  I have lost the capacity for happiness.  I have not loved you!  Oh, despair!  God alone knows for how many nights I have cried to Him:  “Lord, take my talent, take my fame, take my life, but return to me for only one moment my Jadwiga as she was of old!”