Count. Return still quicker.—Go; fly!——(Exit Servant)—I was wrong to send Basil out of the way—He might have been very serviceable—But Anger was never wise—I scarcely know at present what I wish—When once the Passions have obtained the Mastery, there is no Mind, however consistent, but becomes as wild and incongruous as a Dream—If the Countess, Susan, and Figaro should understand each other and plot to betray me!—If the Page was shut up in her dressing-room—Oh! no!—The Respect she bears herself—my Honor!—My Honor? And in my Wife’s keeping?—Honor in a Woman’s possession, like Ice Cream in the mouth, melts away in a contest of Pleasure and Pain—I will sound Figaro, however.
Enter FIGARO, behind.
Figaro. Here am I. (Aside.)
Count. And if I have reason to suppose them plotting against me, he shall marry Marcelina.
Figaro. Perhaps not. (Aside.)
Count. But in that case, what must Susan be?
Figaro. My Wife, if you please.—
(Figaro’s eagerness occasions him to speak aloud——The Count turns round astonished.)
Count. My Wife, if you please!—To whom did you say my Wife, if you please?
Figaro. To—to—to—That is—They were the last words of a sentence I was saying to one of the Servants—Go and tell so and so to—my Wife, if you please.