_The Same. Interior of the Cathedral._ LANCIOTTO, FRANCESCA, PAOLO, MALATESTA, GUIDO, RITTA, PEPE, LORDS, KNIGHTS, PRIESTS, PAGES, _a bridal-train of_ LADIES, SOLDIERS, CITIZENS, ATTENDANTS, _etc., discovered before the High Altar. Organ music. The rites being over, they advance._
MALATESTA. Why, bridegroom, will you never kiss the bride? We all are mad to follow you.
PEPE. Yes, yes; Here was Paolo wetting his red lips For the last minute. Kiss, and give him room.
MALATESTA. You heaven-forsaken imp, be quiet now!
PEPE. Then there'd be naught worth hearing.
PEPE. Lord! he don't like it! Hey!--I told you so-- He backs at the first step. Does he not know His trouble's just begun?
LANCIOTTO. Gentle Francesca, Custom imposes somewhat on thy lips: I'll make my levy. [_Kisses her. The others follow._] [_Aside._] Ha! she shrank! I felt Her body tremble, and her quivering lips Seemed dying under mine! I heard a sigh, Such as breaks hearts--O! no, a very groan; And then she turned a sickly, miserable look On pale Paolo, and he shivered too! There is a mystery hangs around her,--ay, Paolo knows it, too.--By all the saints, I'll make him tell it, at the dagger's point! Paolo!--here! I do adjure you, brother, By the great love I bear you, to reveal The secret of Francesca's grief.
LANCIOTTO. What heard you at Ravenna, then?
LANCIOTTO. Not the slightest hint?-- Don't stammer, man! Speak quick! I am in haste.
PAOLO. Nothing that concerns Your happiness, Lanciotto. If I did, Would I not tell unquestioned?
LANCIOTTO. Would you not? You ask a question for me: answer it.
LANCIOTTO. You juggle, you turn deadly pale, Fumble your dagger, stand with head half round, Tapping your feet.--You dare not look at me! By Satan! Count Paolo, let me say, You look much like a full-convicted thief!
LANCIOTTO. Pshaw! brother! You deceive me, sir: You and that lady have a devil's league, To keep a devil's secret. Is it thus You deal with me? Now, by the light above I'd give a dukedom for some fair pretext To fly you all! She does not love me? Well, I could bear that, and live away from her. Love would be sweet, but want of it becomes An early habit to such men as I. But you--ah! there's the sorrow--whom I loved An infant in your cradle; you who grew Up in my heart, with every inch you gained; You whom I loved for every quality, Good, bad, and common, in your natural stock; Ay, for your very beauty! It is strange, you'll say, For such a crippled horror to do that, Against the custom of his kind! O! yes, I love, and you betray me!