hing?

ODOARDO.

Nothing.

ORSINA.

Worthy father! What would I give that you were my father! Pardon me.
The unfortunate so willingly associate together. I would faithfully
share your sorrows--and your anger.

ODOARDO.

Sorrows and anger? Madam--but I forget--go on.

ORSINA.

Should she even be your only daughter--your only child--but it matters
not. An unfortunate child is ever an only one.

ODOARDO.

Unfortunate?--Madam! But why do I attend to her? And yet, by Heaven, no
lunatic speaks thus.

ORSINA.

Lunatic? That, then, was the secret which he told you of me. Well,
well. It is perhaps not one of his greatest falsehoods. I feel that I
am something like one; and believe me, sir, they who, under certain
circumstances, do not lose their intellect, have none to lose.

ODOARDO.

What must I think?

ORSINA.

Treat me not with contempt, old man. You possess strong sense. I know
it by your resolute and reverend mien. You also possess sound judgment,
yet I need but speak one word, and both these qualities are fled for
ever.

ODOARDO.

Oh, Madam, they will have fled before you speak that word, unless you
pronounce it soon. Speak, I conjure you; or it is not true that you are
one of that good class of lunatics who claim our pity and respect; you
are naught else than a common fool. You cannot have what you never
possessed.

ORSINA.

Mark my words, then. What do you know, who fancy that you know enough?
That Appiani is wounded? Wounded only? He is dead.

ODOARDO.

Dead? Dead? Woman, you abide not by your promise. You said you would
rob me of my reason, but you break my heart.

ORSINA.

Thus much by the way. Now, let me proceed. The bridegroom is dead, and
the bride, your daughter, worse than dead.

ODOARDO.

Worse? Worse than dead? Say that she too is dead--for I know but one
thing worse.

ORSINA.

She is not dead; no, good father, she is alive, and will now just begin
to live indeed; the finest, merriest fool's paradise of a life--as long
as it lasts.