Pierre (_bursting out_).
What is your fear compared to what I had to stand! Compared to my
biting, nauseous shame as I sat there opposite him?--I scorned the man
inwardly, and yet I felt as if I ought to lick the dust on his boots.
When mamma said to him, "You don't look very well, Herr Wittich--are
you ill?"--her words were like the box on the ear that she gave me
when, as a lad of fifteen, I got into mischief with the steward's
daughter.--Why did you drag me into this loathsome business? I don't
like it!--I won't stand it!--I like to feel straight! I want my hands
clean!--I want to look down on the people that I meet!--I owe that to
myself.
Julia.
Reproaches?--I'd like to know who has the guilty conscience in this
case, you or I?
Pierre.
How long have you been concerned about your conscience?
Julia.
Pierre, you know I had never belonged to any other man--except him.
Pierre.
But you've showered sweet glances right and left. You've flirted with
every man who would look at you--even the stable-boy wasn't beneath
your notice!
Julia.
And he was better than you!--For he wanted nothing more than to follow
me with his eyes. But you, Pierre, you were not so easily satisfied.
No, the young Count was more exacting. Corrupt to the core--in spite of
his twenty years----
Pierre (_proudly_).