Enter Cox.
COUNT COXO.
Everybody applauds him. The Signor says, aloud, “Oh 'ow good! eet is Deeck,” and looks about, proud of his penetration of his nephew's disguise, when Madame observes, “Mr. Regniati, if you can't be quiet, you'd better go out,” whereupon the Signor confines himself to smiling and nodding to different people among the audience, intimating thereby his intense satisfaction with everything that is taking place on the stage.
Cox is in full tourist style of the most recent fashion. Over this he wears a top-coat and round his throat a cache-nez. In one hand he holds a large glass of water.
He walks up and down on entering. Drinks a little. Takes off his coat, which he throws on the sofa. Then drinks again. Then walks. Then removes the cache-nez, which he throws on to coat, then he stands still and respires freely.
COX.
Phew! I'm only gradually cooling. This is the sixth day I've taken the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle . . . and I'm beginning to be so sulphurous all over, that, if anybody was to rub against me suddenly, I should ignite and go off with a bang. I've written to my friend Box an account of it. I haven't seen Box for some years; but as I particularly wish him to remain in England just now, I've commenced a correspondence with him. I've told him that the doctor's orders here are very simple . . . . “Herr Cox,” says he to me—Herr's German—I must explain that to Box, because, though Box is a good fellow, yet—he's—in fact—he's an ass. “Herr Cox,” says he, “you must drink a glass of sulphur wasser.” Wasser's German too; it didn't take long for my naturally fine intellect to discover that it meant water. But Box doesn't know it . . . for though he's an excellent fellow, he is—in fact he's an ignoramus. “Herr Cox,” says he to me, “you must take the sulphur wasser, and then walk about.” “What next, Herr Doctor?” says I. Note to Box. Herr Doctor doesn't mean that he's anything to do with a Hair-cutter. No, it's the respectful German for Mister—must explain that to Box, for though he's a tiptop chap, yet Box is—is—in fact, Box is a confounded idiot. “Herr Doctor,” says I, “what next?” “Well,” says he “when you've taken the sulphur water and walked about, then you must walk about and take the sulphur water.” Simple. The first glass . . . ugh! I shan't forget it. I never could have imagined, till that moment, what the taste of a summer beverage made of curious old eggs . . . a trifle over ripe . . . beaten up with a lucifer match, would be like . . . now I know. But I was not to be conquered. Glass number two was not so bad. Glass number three . . . . less unpalatable than glass number two—glass number four . . . um, between number three and number four a considerable time was allowed to elapse, as I found I had been going it too fast. But now my enfeebled health is gradually being renovated, and they tell me that when I leave this, I shall be “quite another man.” I don't know what other man I shall be. Yes I do. I am now a single man. I hope to leave here a double, I mean a married man. Cox, my boy, that's what you've come here for. Cox, my boy, that's why you want to keep, diplomatically, Box, my boy, in England, and in ignorance of your proceedings. Herr Cox, you're a sly dog. If I could give myself a dig in the ribs without any internal injury, I'd do it. I came here for the rheumatism. By the way I needn't have come here for that, as I'd got it pretty strongly. I caught it, without any sort of trouble. I bathed, at Margate, in the rain. Before I could reach my bathing machine, I was drenched through and through, I don't know where to, but long beyond the skin. The injury was more than skin deep. No amount of exterior scrubbings could cure me. Brandies and waters hot internally, every day for two months, produced more than the desired effect. I began to wander. I finished by travelling. And here I am. In six more lessons on the sulphur spring, I shall be quite the Cure. (Dances and sings.) “The Cure, the Cure, the Cure, &c.”
(Great applause: from the Signor especially.)