With a jingle of triumph the barber ran off.
“Hu-u-u-m—that Senor, music-master, was the rascal who brought her the letter from the count.”
“Indeed!”
At this moment there was heard a horrible crash, which sounded like a canonnade with china bowls.
Away flew the doctor after the barber; again the explanation of the “ground-work” went on; and was only interrupted by Figaro’s flying entrance—a bright new little key between his fore-finger and thumb.
Victory—in fact!
But he showed a very doleful countenance as the doctor came deploringly in the room.
“Six plates—eight basins—one tureen!
Was such damage ever seen?”
But, in spite of plates and dishes, the time of a town barber was not to be wasted; so Figaro, flourishing his instruments of torture about, the doctor sat down, and the barber was preparing to dash at him, brush in hand, when his arm remained suspended in the air; for Marplot, in the shape of Don Basilio, stood in the doorway!
For an instant the barber was disconcerted, but recovering his presence of mind, he prepared to assault the doctor. But the latter, struggling to his feet, called out, “Basilio! ’tis Basilio!”