Crack!—she had barely got into the balcony than the old doctor was after her.
“A fine morning, child. What letter’s that?”
As she answered, she saw the proposed owner of the letter. “A letter—no—a piece of music. Oh, dear, it has fallen into the street—pray go and pick it up.”
He required no recommendation. He trundled his jealous old legs to the street door, but the letter was delivered. He looked sharply about, while the young lady deplored that the wind had carried it away.
“I’ll surely have that balcony walled up,” said the old doctor—“I surely will.”
And he went in and barred the door.
As for the letter—opened and read by Figaro—it stated that the lady had a laudible curiosity to know who and what was the serenader, and why he came there—that she was touched by his attentions; that she was wretched; that she hated her guardian; and that her name was Rosina.
After reading the letter, said Figaro—“And a sad old fellow is that same guardian—a miser, a monster, a wretch.”
Again the barber was brought up short—the doctor had left his house again—going to see a patient. And he left strict injunctions to let no one enter while he was away; though, if Don Basilio came—let him wait outside.
A stream of condemnation for Don Basilio—who, truth to say, was a rival of Figaro’s. “A match-maker by trade,” said Figaro; “a penniless, know-nothing rapscallion, who had recently set up as a music master. A long, lank, lean man, with a nose like a hook; and he taught Rosina music too!”