Count. Pardon me, is impossible.
Mrs. Fan. Monfoy, je parle vray! we are meer English assurement.
Count. Mon foy, je parle vray! vat is dat Gibberish? Oh, lettè me see; de Fader is de Lawyere, an she learne of him at de Temple: is de Law French. I am amazè! French Lookè, French Ayre, French Mien, French Movement of de Bodee! Morbleu. Monsieur, I vil gage 4,500 Pistol, dat dese two Sister vere bred in France, yes. Teste bleau, I can no be deceive.
Mrs. Fan. Jee vous en prie, do not; we never had the blessing to be in France; you do us too much Honour. Alas, we are forc'd to be content with plain English Breeding: you will bring all my blood into a blush. I had indeed a penchen always to French.
The barber-count makes fun of the French of the ladies Fantast, but in one of the conversations the joke is turned the other way, for Mrs. Fantast's learning very nearly proves fatal to the count:
Mrs. Fan. You know very well what the Poet says:
Res est Solliciti plena timoris amor.
Count. Ver well, Madam, you be de most profound Ladee, and de great Scholar.—[Aside.] Morbleu, she vill findé me out! Begar, I can no read.
Mrs. Fan. No, no assurement, pretty well read in the Classic Authors. Or so. Monsieur Scudery says very well:
L'amour est une grande chose.