Countess (weeping). I can never forget how in his dying agonies he looked reproachfully in my face, and with his usual quickness at catching up words, cried, "To the mischief with your cold parsnips!" I can never forget. [Overcome.]
Michel. Yes, yes, Pompo would always say naughty words. And then there was Ponto, the ape—
Countess. Forbear! forbear! My anguish at finding him cold and drowned overcomes my heart. [Weeps.]
Michel. Cheer up, madame; Moumouth still lives, and is happy.
Countess. My constant fear is that he'll die or be killed.
Michel. Never fear. How well I remember the day we found him, and your noble conduct at that time!
Countess. Flattery again, Michel.
Michel (warmly). I can not flatter when I speak of that noble act. I have immortalized it in verse. Will you listen if I repeat it?
Countess. Proceed. For Moumouth's sake I will listen.
Solo.—Michel.