Figaro. Perfectly.
Count. Indeed!—Let’s hear.—(Figaro pulls out his purse and jingles it)—Is that all the French thou understandest?
Figaro. All!—Is not that enough, think you, my Lord?—That’s a Language understood in every corner of the habitable Earth, and in no place better than in Paris.—“Your Philosophers, who lament the loss of an universal Language, are Fools—They always carry one in their pockets.” As for a knowledge of French, my Lord, I maintain, s’il vous plait, and a Purse are all that’s necessary—Let but the sound of Silver jingle in a Frenchman’s ears, and he will instantly understand your meaning, be it what it will.— “If you have a Law-suit, and wish to gain your Cause, go to the Judge, pull off your Hat, and pull out your Purse; smile, shake it, and pronounce, s’il vous plait, Monsieur—
Count. “And your Adversary is overthrown.
Figaro. “Undoubtedly—Unless he understands French still better than you—Do you wish the Friendship of a great Lord, or a great Lady, its still the same—Chink, chink, and s’il vous plait, Monseigneur—S’il vous plait, Madame—The French are a very witty People!—Amazingly quick of apprehension!—Therefore, my Lord, if you have no other reason than this for leaving me behind—”
Count. But thou art no Politician.
Figaro. Pardon me, my Lord, I am as great a master of Politics——
Count. As thou art of French.
Figaro. Oh, my Lord, the thing is so easy—He must be a Fool indeed who could find his vanity flattered by his skill in Politics—To appear always deeply concerned for the good of the State, yet to have no other end but Self-interest; to assemble and say Nothing; to pretend vast Secrecy where there is nothing to conceal; to shut yourself up in your Chamber, and mend your pen or pick your Teeth, while your Footmen inform the attending Croud you are too busy to be approach’d—this, with the art of intercepting Letters, imitating Hands, pensioning Traitors, and rewarding Flatterers, is the whole mystery of Politics, or I am an Idiot.