“I must inform you, sir, that I have no desire whatever to jest,” cried Wilhelmine, impatiently. “Have the goodness to be serious. Now, that we are alone, I beg that you will not attempt to keep up the absurd farce of our so-called marriage.”
“And bad enough it is for me that it is only a farce,” sighed Rietz, impressively. “I would—”
The angry look which Wilhelmine bestowed upon him, repressed his words, and he quickly assumed a melancholy, submissive manner. “I am silent, madame, I am silent,” said he, bowing profoundly, and with an air of deep pathos. “I am your most submissive servant, nothing else; and, having now paid my homage to the sun, I will retire, as its splendor has dazzled my eyes.”
He crossed his arms before his breast, bowed to the earth before his mistress, as the slaves do in the east, and then arose and walked rapidly toward the door.
“Where are you going, sir?” asked Wilhelmine. “Why do you not remain here?”
“I cannot, mistress,” said he, humbly. “The Moor has done his duty! The Moor can go! So it reads at least in Frederick Schiller’s new piece, the one given at the theatre a short time ago.”
“But you have not yet done your duty,” said Wilhelmine, smiling involuntarily. “You have not yet delivered your message.”
“What message?” asked Rietz, with a pretence of astonishment.
“His majesty’s message. For he it was, undoubtedly, who sent you here.”
“You are right,” said Rietz, with an air of indifference. “Yes, that is true. I had forgotten it. Good heavens! I have received so many commissions to-day, and been sent to so many ladies, that I forget the one in the other. I am now playing a very important rôle. I am the Figaro of my master Almaviva—the Figaro who has to help his master in carrying off his beautiful cousin. You know the piece, of course, the delightfully good-for-nothing piece, that created such a furor in France, and consequently here with us also?”