ORGON, TARTUFFE

ORGON:
What! So insult a saintly man of God!

TARTUFFE:
Heaven, forgive him all the pain he gives me!

(To Orgon)
Could you but know with what distress I see
Them try to vilify me to my brother!

ORGON:
Ah!

TARTUFFE:
The mere thought of such ingratitude
Makes my soul suffer torture, bitterly . . .
My horror at it . . . Ah! my heart's so full
I cannot speak . . . I think I'll die of it.

ORGON: (in tears, running to the door through which he drove away his son)
Scoundrel! I wish I'd never let you go,
But slain you on the spot with my own hand.

(To Tartuffe)
Brother, compose yourself, and don't be angry.

TARTUFFE:
Nay, brother, let us end these painful quarrels.
I see what troublous times I bring upon you,
And think 'tis needful that I leave this house.

ORGON:
What! You can't mean it?

TARTUFFE:
Yes, they hate me here,
And try, I find, to make you doubt my faith.

ORGON:
What of it? Do you find I listen to them?

TARTUFFE:
No doubt they won't stop there. These same reports
You now reject, may some day win a hearing.

ORGON:
No, brother, never.

TARTUFFE:
Ah! my friend, a woman
May easily mislead her husband's mind.

ORGON:
No, no.

TARTUFFE:
So let me quickly go away
And thus remove all cause for such attacks.

ORGON:
No, you shall stay; my life depends upon it.

TARTUFFE:
Then I must mortify myself. And yet,
If you should wish . . .

ORGON:
No, never!

TARTUFFE:
Very well, then;
No more of that. But I shall rule my conduct
To fit the case. Honour is delicate,
And friendship binds me to forestall suspicion,
Prevent all scandal, and avoid your wife.

ORGON:
No, you shall haunt her, just to spite them all.
'Tis my delight to set them in a rage;
You shall be seen together at all hours
And what is more, the better to defy them,
I'll have no other heir but you; and straightway
I'll go and make a deed of gift to you,
Drawn in due form, of all my property.
A good true friend, my son-in-law to be,
Is more to me than son, and wife, and kindred.
You will accept my offer, will you not?

TARTUFFE:
Heaven's will be done in everything!

ORGON:
Poor man!
We'll go make haste to draw the deed aright,
And then let envy burst itself with spite!