atter to me. So much the worse for you.

CLE. Well, well, come back.

SOS. No, not, likely! I shall not do anything of the kind, I shall be
angry. I turn now.

CLE. Go away, you villain, let me alone; one gets tired now and then of
being an honest woman.

END OF THE SECOND ACT

ACT III

SCENE I

AMPHITRYON

Yes, so doubt fate hides him purposely from me; at last am I tired of
trying to find him. I do not know anything that can be more cruel than
my lot. In spite of all my endeavours, I cannot find him whom I seek;
all those I do not seek I find. A thousand tiresome bores, who do not
think they are so, drive me mad with their congratulations on our feats
of arms, although they know little of me. In the cruel embarrassment and
anxiety that troubles me, they all burden me with their attentions, and
their rejoicings make my uneasiness worse. In vain I try to pass them
by, to flee from their persecutions; their killing friendship stops me
on all sides; whilst I reply to the ardour of their expressions by a nod
of the head, I mutter under my breath a hundred curses on them. Ah! How
little we are flattered by praise, honour and all that a great victory
brings, when inwardly we suffer keen sorrow! How willingly would I
exchange all this glory to have peace of mind! At every turn my jealousy
twits me with my disgrace; the more my mind ponders over it, the less
can I unravel its miserable confusion. The theft of the diamonds does
not astonish me; seals may be tampered with unperceived; but my most
cruel torment is that she insists I gave the gift to her personally
yesterday. Nature oftentimes produces resemblances, which some impostors
have adopted in order to deceive; but it is inconceivable that, under
these appearances, a man should pass himself off as a husband; there are
a thousand differences in a relationship such as this which a wife could
easily detect. The marvellous effects of Thessalian magic have at all
times been renowned; but I have always looked upon as idle tales the
famous stories everyone talks of. It would be a hard fate if I, after so
glorious a victory elsewhere, should be compelled to believe them at
the cost of my own honour. I will question her again upon this wretched
mystery, and see if it is not a silly fancy that has taken advantage of
her disordered brain. O righteous Heaven, may this thought be true, and
may she even have lost her senses, so that I may be happy!

SCENE II