“Charmed in a tomb, Figaro? This house is a tomb.”
“Dear, dear—hist!—he’s coming.”
Figaro slid to the other end of the room—Rosina whisked from it, and the barber was a most unconscious person—when Dr. Bartolo and Don Basilio—humbug and music-master (vide Figaro), made their appearance.
Figaro was ordered out for the present.
Terror for Rosina—what says her guardian to the other?—that either by love or force he will be married to her, and that too, within twenty-four hours.
“Ah! Count Almaviva has arrived.” Here the informant, Don Basilio, serpentized all his fingers.
“What—what—that same unknown lover of Rosina’s?”
“The very same—but softly—softly—let’s paint him black—as black as paint may be.”
The doctor shook his head, beckoned his friend aside, for this was a thing which should be discussed in a closet—not in a room.
Hardly had they left the apartment than it lighted up with the presence of Figaro and Rosina.