_Lello._ Be silent, Sancia! Francesco ... what?
_Petrarca_ (_to ORSO_). Lead Monna Laura here--
If it is she!... But you, my friends, must know how strange this is, And how--!... I have no words!... Wait me, I pray you, yonder, in that chamber.
(_They go, left, SANCIA shrugging. Then ORSO brings LAURA, whom PETRARCA is helpless to greet, and who falters--yet nobly determining, comes down._)
_Laura._ Messer Petrarca, ... I have been impelled To come ... and as the purest should, boldly, With lifted veil, to say ...
_Laura._ To say-- (Of gratitude I cannot give another ... For life to a woman is but resignation, And that at last is shame) ...
_Laura._ To say--Love is to us as light to the lilies That lean by Mont Ventoux. The love of one pure man for one pure woman.
_Laura._ Yes, and--I've been unkind to you. Ungentle ever.
But there's no other way sometimes for those Who would be wholly true. And yet ... do I owe _any_ truth to _him_?
_Laura_ (_bitterly_). Who is called my husband? How I was bound to him, you know! and how I've dwelt and have endured more than his bursts Of burning cruelty. For still, I thought, He is my husband! And still--He is my husband!... But now no more I think it--oh! no more! Too visible it is That he belongs to any--who sell love. So I may innocently say to you Who for two years have sung my name Yet never once have turned unto another--
(_Sees, stricken, his grief and shame. Then her glance goes round the room and falls on the wine-table ... Then SANCIA is heard within:_)
_Sancia._ Well, well, Messer Petrarca! How long will You shut us in this dark--that is as black As old Pope John the twenty-second's soul? A pretty festa, this!
(_Falls abased before LAURA'S look, tortured with remorse._)
O lady, what have I done beyond repair!...
What have I lost within this gulf of shame! For a paltry pleasure have I sold my dream, Whose pinions would have lifted you at last?
_Laura_ (_very pale_). I did not know, Messer Petrarca, you Had friends awaiting.
I came to-night, as first I would have said, With holy gratitude-- For a love I thought you gave. With gratitude that honor well could speak, I thought, and yet be honor; With gratitude forgetful of all else ... And trusting ... But no matter: All trust shall be embalmed and laid away. I go with pity; seeing My husband--is even as other men.
