SCENE V
_Pepito and Ernest._
ERNEST. What are you looking at?
PEPITO. Hulloa! Ernest. Only a paper I caught on the wing. The wind blew it away.
ERNEST. [_Takes it and returns it after a short inspection._] I don't remember what it is.
PEPITO. Verses. You may remember [_reads with difficulty_] 'The flame that consumes me.' [_Aside._] _Devora_ rhymes with _Teodora_.
ERNEST. It is nothing important.
PEPITO. No, nothing. [_Throws away the paper._]
ERNEST. That worthless bit of paper is a symbol of our life—a few sobs of sorrow, and a little flake of ashes.
PEPITO. Then they were verses?
ERNEST. Yes. When I've nothing better to do, sometimes—my pen runs away with me—I write them at night.
PEPITO. And to prick enthusiasm, and get into harness, you seek inspiration in the master's book.
ERNEST. It would seem——
PEPITO. Say no more. 'Tis truly a gigantic work. The episode of Francesca. [_Pointing to the page._]
ERNEST. [_Ironically and impatiently._] You can't guess wrong to-day.
PEPITO. Not entirely, by Jove. Here, where the book is open, I find something I can't guess, and you must explain it to me. Reading a love-tale together to pass the time, we are told that Francesca and Paolo reached that part where the gallant author, proving himself no amateur in the business, sings the loves of Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. The match fell pat. The kiss in the book was repeated by the passionate youth on the girl's mouth. And at this point of the story, with rare skill and sublime truth, the Florentine poet tells us what happens. [_Points to the line._] But this is what I do not understand. _Galeoto was the book they were reading, and they read no more._ They stopped reading? That's easy enough to understand. But this Galeoto, tell me where he comes in, and who was he? You ought to know, since he has given his name to the play that is to make you famous. Let me see. [_Takes up the MS. and examines it._]
ERNEST. Galeoto was the go-between for the Queen and Launcelot and in all loves the _third_ may be truthfully nicknamed Galeoto, above all when we wish to suggest an ugly word without shocking an audience.
PEPITO. I see, but have we no Spanish word to express it?
ERNEST. We have one, quite suitable and expressive enough. 'Tis an office that converts desires into ducats, overcomes scruples, and is fed upon the affections. It has a name, but to use it would be putting a fetter upon myself, forcing myself to express what, after all, I would leave unsaid. [_Takes the MS. from Pepito and flings it upon the table._] Each especial case, I have remarked, has its own especial go-between. Sometimes it is the entire social mass that is Galeoto. It then unconsciously exercises the office under the influence of a vice of quite another aspect, but so dexterously does it work against honour and modesty that no greater Galeoto can ever be found. Let a man and woman live happily, in tranquil and earnest fulfilment of their separate duties. Nobody minds them, and they float along at ease. But God be praised, this is a state of things that does not last long in Madrid. One morning somebody takes the trouble to notice them, and from that moment, behold society engaged in the business, without aim or object, on the hunt for hidden frailty and impurity. Then it pronounces and judges, and there is no logic that can convince it, nor living man who can hope to persuade it, and the honestest has not a rag of honour left. And the terrible thing is, that while it begins in error it generally ends in truth. The atmosphere is so dense, misery so envelops the pair, such is the press and torrent of slander, that they unconsciously seek one another, unite lovelessly, drift toward their fall, and adore each other until death. The world was the stumbling-stone of virtue, and made clear the way for shame—was Galeoto and—[_aside_] stay! what mad thought inflames me!
PEPITO. [_Aside._] If that's the way he discourses to Teodora, heaven help poor Don Julian. [_Aloud._] I suppose last night's verses dealt with the subject.
ERNEST. Yes, they did.
PEPITO. How can you waste your time so coolly, and sit there so calm, doing nothing, when in another hour you will be measuring swords with Nebreda, who, for all his dandy's cane, is a man when put upon his mettle? Wouldn't it be saner and wiser to practise fencing instead of expounding questions of verse and rhyme? You look so mighty cool that I almost doubt if you regard your meeting with the viscount as serious.
ERNEST. No,—for a good reason. If I kill him, the world gains; if he kill me, I gain.
PEPITO. Well, that's good.
ERNEST. Don't say any more about it.
PEPITO. [_Aside._] Now I must warily find out. [_Approaches him and speaks in a low voice._] Is it for to-day?
ERNEST. Yes, to-day.
PEPITO. Outside the town?
ERNEST. No, there's no time for that. Besides, we wish to keep it quiet.
PEPITO. In a house, then?
ERNEST. So I proposed.
PEPITO. Where?
ERNEST. Upstairs. [_Speaks with cold indifference._] There's a room unlet upstairs, with a side window, through which nobody can look. Under the circumstances it's better than a field, and will be had for a handful of silver.
PEPITO. And now all you need——
ERNEST. The swords!
PEPITO. I hear voices outside. Somebody is coming—the seconds?
ERNEST. May be.
PEPITO. It sounds like a woman's voice. [_Approaches the door._]
ERNEST. [_Approaching also._] But who's keeping them?