"This miserable Brackenburg," muttered Buschmann to himself, "Clärchen has long since sacrificed him to her Egmont, and he still runs about the market and mobilises the citizens. Well, the iron tread of my Spaniards will pass implacably over them."
His confidence in the success of the good cause which he represented suddenly increased, when a noisy human stream suddenly poured into the pit, Spiegeler, in front, stamping with his crutches, eager for the fight.
Ah, that was Blücher at Waterloo! Now the victory was decided, those were veteran troops which he led, accustomed to the battle-fire of a theatre, accustomed to obey the leader's signal, to work together in irresistible onslaught, obstinate and tough enough to overcome all resistance. That was the select battalion of the claque which understood how to raise the flag of fame on high, but also how to tear it down and trample it in the dust.
Buschmann's features became radiant. What could Böller's volunteers, with their undisciplined enthusiasm do against these well trained troops, which could stand immovably under fire?
In the densely crowded pit, however, Spiegeler at once recognised an enemy in his immediate vicinity--the singer's friend, the repulsive Italian, who had given him a palpable proof of this friendship. Despite all menaces, the critic had not brought the affair into court, because he did not wish that the episode at the "fleck" boiler's, by means of a trial and newspapers, should become too generally known; he believed rightly that his position as a critic might suffer if people learned what species of anti-criticism had been his portion. But secretly he brooded upon revenge.
He was delighted to perceive that Baluzzi stood amidst the faithful, who surrounded him like a lightning-laden cloud, and hoped that at the coming discharge some unexpected blow would fall upon the intruder's head.
The curtain rose when the overture ceased, the audience listened in breathless expectation; Figaro's song was tempestuously applauded. Giulia's friends aired their enthusiasm; their opponents, on the other hand, wished to make the contrast all the more conspicuous by previously helping a mediocre baritone to a brilliant success.
The singer was quite amazed at the unusual storm of approval with which he was greeted; he bowed his acknowledgments amid the most beautiful dreams of a future that fluttered through his mind; at last his great talent had met with merited recognition; in spirit he saw himself already as the first baritone at the Berlin Court opera house.
Then the street was changed into Bartolo's room. Rosina appeared.
Böller, always ready for service, hurled his wreaths behind the footlights, and gave the signal for applause; the young merchant guards in the pit joined in, also Kuhl and Schöner, and several unconcerned listeners in the stalls.