FRANCESCA. That's noble! Have you done? I have observed a strange reserve, at times, An over-carefulness in choosing words, Both in my father and his nearest friends, When speaking of your brother; as if they Picked their way slowly over rocky ground, Fearing to stumble. Ritta, too, my maid, When her tongue rattles on in full career, Stops at your brother's name, and with a sigh Settles herself to dismal silence. Count, These things have troubled me. From you I look For perfect frankness. Is there naught withheld?
PAOLO. [_Aside._] O base temptation! What if I betray His crippled person--imitate his limp-- Laugh at his hip, his back, his sullen moods Of childish superstition?--tread his heart Under my feet, to climb into his place?--Use his own warrant 'gainst himself; and say, Because I loved her, and misjudged your jest, Therefore I stole her? Why, a common thief Would hang for just such thinking! Ha! ha! ha! [_Laughing._] I reckon on her love, as if I held The counsels of her bosom. No, I swear, Francesca would despise so mean a deed. Have I no honour either? Are my thoughts All bound by her opinions?
FRANCESCA. This is strange! Is Lanciotto's name a spell to all? I ask a simple question, and straight you Start to one side, and mutter to yourself, And laugh, and groan, and play the lunatic, In such a style that you astound me more Than all the others. It appears to me I have been singled as a common dupe By every one. What mystery is this Surrounds Count Lanciotto? If there be A single creature in the universe Who has a right to know him as he is, I am that one.
PAOLO. I grant it. You shall see, And shape your judgment by your own remark. All that my honour calls for I have said.
FRANCESCA. I am content. Unless I greatly err, Heaven made your breast the seat of honest thoughts. You know, my lord, that, once at Rimini, There can be no retreat for me. By you, Here at Ravenna, in your brother's name, I shall be solemnly betrothed. And now I thus extend my maiden hand to you; If you are conscious of no secret guilt, Take it.
PAOLO. With the hand, Not with the obligation.
FRANCESCA. Farewell, Count! 'Twere cruel to tax your stock of compliments, That waste their sweets upon a trammelled heart; Go fly your fancies at some freer game. [_Exit._