“Yes, I swear it by my post;
You’re as chalky as a ghost.
Fever! ghost!
Don Basilio—go to bed,
’Tis the fever called the red.”
The professor of music made that “chink, chink” chorus already alluded to; and when he performed it he was standing near the barber. Thereupon said Figaro, still in his quality of surgeon, and still to Don Basilio.
“And as you’ll want a nurse,
Let me recommend—this purse;
Yes; you are very bad indeed,
In such cases one must—bleed.”
The music-master, the barber, and the young lady too, were all so interested in Don Basilio’s health, and they did so crowd about him, that the doctor could neither put in a word nor get near his friend, whose fingers went twisting about, trying to discover the most profitable line of conduct to pursue.
At last:—
“Good day to all—with all my heart,
I make my bow, and so depart.”
The town barber was immediately himself again with his implements. He turned even his handsome body to account; for he made of it a screen, and so hid the piano and the two young people from the doctor’s green eyes.
“Do, re, me, fa.”
“We have the keys of the balcony; at midnight be you there.”
“Yes; Sol, la, si, do-o-o-o-o.”