MRS. G. Merci, mon ami. (aside) The atrocious wretch!
GREEN. Now that point’s settled, may I not in the profane language of poetic fiction be permitted to feast these longing eyes on those heavenly features?
MRS. G. Ah! you persuade me what you like you leetle rascal.
GREEN. Gracious condescension! So from the face of heaven the cloud withdraws and (she has raised her veil; seeing her face he starts) and—ahem! the face of heaven. (aside) The Countess’s face don’t improve upon close inspection. I never liked red hair, and I hate green spectacles.
MRS. G. You like my pheezog?—it is your taste? Ah! oui, now I sall leave you to change my toilette—restez vous ici, and n’oubliez pas—don’t forget I am Madame Grinfeench.
Exit R.
GREEN. Shall I ever forget it? never! Hem! The Countess adores me that’s clear, and if she hadn’t red hair, she’d be a remarkably fine woman. But she may dye her hair:—Gad, so she may; its only dying for love after all.
MRS. G. (returning) Ah! I did forget—you must prenez garde—be vide awake, and take care of our secret, for de most little cause of suspect vill coupez both our neck at one slice.
Exit R.
GREEN. What does she mean? I feel I’m up to the ears in some terrible mystery. I don’t know whether ’tis conscience or cowardice, but my sympathy for the Countess is evaporating very rapidly, in fact I’m beginning to feel dreadfully uncomfortable here—why should she want to pass as my wife? Why does she want to escape from France? Eh? Echo returns no answer to its correspondent! (sees the basket on the table, L.) Hah! here’s her basket she has forgotten, perhaps it may contain something to clear up this mystery. (takes basket off table) Bless me, ’tis very heavy for its size, what can she have in it? (feeling the basket) ’Tis not a smelling bottle, nor it can’t be a case of razors—Countesses don’t usually shave. I shouldn’t wonder if it was—no, no, it’s—eh? what is it then? (draws a pistol from the basket) Ha—a—oh! A p-p-pistol! Oh, dear! there’s more in this than meets the eye!—Why does she travel with these deadly weapons? Hah! A horrid thought flashes across my tortured brain—perhaps she’s Abd el Kader in disguise, or more horrible still she maybe a female bandit intending to make me her unsuspecting victim; murder me perhaps in my sleep; she looks as if she could do it. (MRS. G. appears watching at door, R.) Oh, lord! I’ll go this moment and inform the police.