CHAPTER II.

It is, I hope, no imputation upon Rosina’s character to say she _watched_ the count and the barber as they chatted; and it is to be hoped no one will accuse her of impropriety, if, in that hour, she fairly made up her mind that the count would make an admirable husband! And--and after a time she wrote another letter--a delicious lover’s relief--and wondered how _he_ was to get it; and she was just thinking that perhaps Figaro could----

When Figaro came into the room.

“Good day, Senorita.”

“Good day, Senor Figaro; I am dying of weariness.”

“Then look in the glass, and you’ll be charmed.”

“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.

It was the duty of Figaro to hear--“chink--chink”--he had been paid for it. But it was not the duty of Rosina to listen; so she had not heard.

“Wedding cake, Senorita!”

“Not here, Senor.”

“Yes--yours; your guardian intends to marry you.”

“La, la.”

“On the faith of a barber--he and the music-master are at this moment arranging the matter.”

“Indeed; but Figaro, who was it that I saw you talking with a few hours since in the streets?”

“My cousin--a fine fellow--with the best of heads and hearts. He has come here to study, and make his fortune.”

“Fortune--and he’ll make it, Figaro?”

“He has one defect--he’s over head and ears in love!”

“_In_deed--how interested I am! Where does _she_ live?”

“Not far off.”

“_In_deed; handsome?”

“Hum--yes; here’s her portrait. A pretty graceful figure--such jetty ringlets--a rosy cheek--eyes too that sparkle--and....”

“And her name?”

“ROSINA!”

“What! _I_ the poor Lindoro’s flame?”

“As sure Rosina is your name!”

“And I shall see him, and speak to him?”

“You will--and soon--and here. But he, poor fellow, fain would have some token--just two lines; come--quick--a note.”

“A note--oh--here’s one ready.”

“Ah! In love I plainly see, She’s taken her degree, What man knows woman’s art? Faith--what man knows a part?”

And he was gone.

She wore a very pleased expression of feature for two minutes after Figaro had departed. But then she justifiably pouted, for Dr. Bartolo came into the room, feeble in all his parts but his eyes, which were glancing about like sharp knives. Figaro. He was doubtful of Figaro. And he was sure of Rosina’s simplicity.

“What man knows woman’s art? Faith--what man knows a part?”

So he thought he would question her.

“Pray what brought the barber here so early--he spoke to you?”

“He always does! And chatted of a thousand things--the latest fashions from Paris--and--and other things.”

“And the answer of your note! No quibbling--the note, the piece of music you dropped this morning from the balcony? You blush--how came that finger marked with ink?”

“A burn--I used the ink to cure it!”

“That paper--where’s the sixth--there are but five sheets here.”

“I wrapped some sweetmeats in it, that I sent to Figaro’s little niece.”

“And this pen--why ’tis yet wet.”

“Yes--I designed a flower.”

“A flower indeed!”

Finding she had the worst of the battle, she flounced away and out of the room, the doctor following her, and positively breathing jealousy.

* * * * *

There was such a knocking at the street door, that the whole house shook in alarm; and old Bertha, the housekeeper, thought it was coming down about her ears. Hence she opened the door with greater speed than she had used for years, and she stood a ghost as there, upon the door step, she saw a soldier--and, moreover, a drunken soldier. She would have banged to the door again--but in so doing she must have crushed the intruder, for he was coolly leaning against the post.

The old housekeeper came steaming back into the room, her arms wide open, and, so to speak--full of the subject--the soldier--the drunken soldier!

“Tramp--tramp--tramp--tramp.” Two steps and a stagger on the part of the soldier.

Dr. Bartolo heard the noise, and came in at a sharp trot at one door, as the drunken soldier came stumbling in at the other.

“Here you--are you--are you--well ARE you he?”

“He--he--what he?”

“Doctor Berteldo--Balordo--whatever it is----?”

“Go to the deuce, sir--_my_ name is Bartolo!”

“Well--well--Dr. Barbaro--it _don’t_ matter--how are you, Dr. Barbaro? Let us embrace, doctor.”

“Stand back, sir.”

“I WILL embrace thee. Ah, how good that is!

“The marshal of regiment I, A doctor, too, of full degrees-- billet on your house I hold Pray look at it--dear doctor--please.”

As the doctor took the paper in a sightless rage, little Rosina came tripping in.

“Methought I overheard just now, A most unusual clamor here, A soldier--and my guardian--too, There’s something much amiss I fear.”

“I am Lindoro.” Thus the drunken soldier, in a soft, delicate voice, suited to--love-making.

“Oh,” she cried, which caused the old guardian to start, and look up. At her he ran like a mad bull.

“Go along--girl--go along!”

“And, faith I, marshall, aye, and doctor too, will e’en go with her.”

“Indeed you won’t.”

“My quarters, sir, are here.”

He reeled towards her, but his voice was far from thick, in fact, deliciously soft, as he whispered, “Dearest, dearest!”

“Help,” she screamed, but her glance was quite kind, nevertheless.

Meanwhile, the guardian was spluttering wildly--“Zounds, sir, stand off.”

“Quick--quick--your handkerchief--let it fall,” he again softly whispered; and as the old doctor had his eyes on him, he drew forth his sword and made a dreadful lunge at Bertha, who, with a squeal, shot away with all the speed she could muster.

As for the guardian--he thought he should burst with rage. But the next moment he had to scamper too, for the drunken wretch made a lunge at _him_.

“Sir--sir--I’m exempt from billeting.”

“Quick--quick--Rosina--take this letter;” and with a remarkably steady hand the soldier held her out a delicate little billet.

But she saw the eyes upon her, so she could not take it.

Still with his eyes on her, the old doctor thrust his hand into a desk, and brought forward a paper--an exemption from billeting.

Said the soldier, “Don’t pull that paper out, old man--unnecessary pain. I’ve taken up my quarters here--and here I will remain.”

“You will--not if there are cudgels in Seville.”

“You’d fight--then let’s begin. A charming thing a battle--truly. I’ll show you how to fight. Now mark me--let this be the trench--and _you_ the enemy. Now pray you mark me, sir,--(drop your handkerchief)--now--but look the other way.”

Here the drunken soldier let fall a something like a note, and immediately something like a lace handkerchief fell over it.

The doctor saw it, though he did not see whence it came; and he made straight for the contraband property. But the soldier stopped him.

“‘Tis nought but a prescription, sir; I told you I was a doctor, well degreed. The writing’s bad, I fain would have you see it not.”

“And I myself would just fain see it.”

“Ah! ’tis a little love affair, perhaps of hers. Pardon.” Here he picked up the note and lace, and handed them to Rosina.

The doctor deserted the soldier directly, and fell upon his little ward. “Quick, quick, the paper!”

“If I could but change it,” thought she; and she did. In a pretended little fright she leant against the table, covered a paper with her hand, and the deceptive deed was done.

’Twas but a list of groceries!

“A fool--a fool--a very fool am I,” thought the old doctor. But he did not say so.

Here there was the sound of weeping on the part of a young lady, who was heard to remark, in a tearful voice, that such oppression was intolerable, and such a life quite unendurable. These remarks, unusual in the sprightly Rosina--for she loved to defy the doctor--caused inexpressible pain to the drunken soldier, who was still reeling about; and perhaps somebody knew the little stabs these same remarks would give.

“What man knows woman’s art, Faith--what man knows a part?”

Suddenly the soldier lunged forward with his long sword again, and did so fly and lay about him, that old Bertha took more exercise than she had taken since her hair turned white. As for the old doctor, he flew about till his respectable black legs looked like a dozen at least.

“Help, help!” shrieked the doctor.

“Murder, murder!” quavered the old lady, getting over the ground more quickly than ever.

“Oh! oh! oh!” said the young lady, in great fear of the drunken soldier. “Pray be still, soldier!”

Suddenly, and with a bound, rushed in barber.

“What’s the matter--what’s the clatter? About a quiet house ’tis pity. I pray you, doctor, gaze below, What’s this to-do, the crowd would know.”

“This is a rogue.” “Then you’re another.” “This is a knave.” “Then you’re my brother.”

Then the barber:

“Good Mr. Soldier, have a care, Or, as sure as you stand there, This basin here, at one fell smack, ’Gainst your sconce it shall go crack.”

“Bang--bang--bang!” at the street door.

“Bang--bang--bang!”

The old guardian hesitated for a moment; but then, thinking he couldn’t make matters worse, he went and opened the door; and in came the watch, and part of the crowd, and tramped all over the place.

Said the officer:

“I ne’er heard such a noise before, Whence springs this horrible uproar?”

The drunken soldier, and the indignant guardian, and the rapid Figaro, and the pert Rosina, and even the flushed old Bertha herself, hastened to give their evidence in chorus; but, with a stern wave of the hand, the captain of the watch bade one speak at a time.

The doctor’s grey hair carried it. He deposed that the soldier was a scoundrel, a coward, and a scamp, who had sought his life and drawn his sword--and that, too, without the least provocation.

Here the barber could not help striking in, “Yes, Senor, and _I_ came in, and _I_ parted the sanguinary combatants.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” This was the voice of a frightened little maiden who began to think a certain drunken soldier was in trouble.

“You are arrested,” said the captain of the watch to the drunken soldier.

Who, thereupon, thinking that the farce had been played long enough, tore open the breast of his coat and showed the Order of the Grandees of Spain.

We are bound to set forth the particulars of the Spanish chronicle, whence we learn that the effect of this “Order” was order indeed. The officer, with unpardonable partiality, immediately un-arrested (to coin a word) the drunken soldier, and everybody was respectfully astonished. Then, everybody went peacefully home, and (bed time arriving) went possibly, to bed.