SBRI. Sir, py your leafe, I pe one voreign marchant, and vould like ask you one littel news. ORO. What, Sir? SBRI. Put you de hat on de head, Sir, if you pleace. ORO. Tell me. Sir, what you want. SBRI. I tell nozink, Sir, if you not put de hat on de head. ORO. Very well, then, what is it, Sir? SBRI. You not know in dis town one Mister Oronte? ORO. Yes, I know him. SBRI. And vat for one man is he, Sir, if you pleace? ORO. He is like any other man. SBRI. I ask you, Sir, if he one man of money is? ORO. Yes. SBRI. But very mooch rich, Sir? ORO. Yes. SBRI. It does me mooch pleasure, Sir. ORO. But why should it? SBRI. It is, Sir, for one littel great reason for us. ORO. But why? SBRI. It is, Sir, dat dis Mr. Oronte his tauchter in marriage to a certain Mr. Pourgnac gifes. ORO. Well! SBRI. And dis Mr. Pourgnac, Sir, is one man vat owes mooch golt to ten or twelf Flemish marchants vat come here. ORO. This Mr. de Pourceaugnac owes a great deal to ten or twelve merchants? SBRI. Yes, Sir; and for de last eight months ve hafe obtain one littel judgment against him, and he put off all de credeetors till dis marriage vat Mr. Oronte gifes to his tauchter. ORO. Ho! ho! So he puts off paying his creditors till then? SBRI. Yes, Sir; and vid great defotion ve all wait for dis marriage. ORO. The idea is not bad. (_Aloud_) I wish you good day. SBRI. I tank de gentleman for de favour great. ORO. Your very humble servant. SBRI. I pe, Sir, more great obliged don all py de goot news vat the Mister gife me. (_Alone, after having taken off his beard, and taken off the Flemish dress which he has put over his_) Things don't go badly. All is going on swimmingly. I must throw off this disguise and think of something else. We will put so much suspicion between the father-in-law and his son-in-law that the intended marriage must come to nothing. They are both equally fit to swallow the baits that are laid for them, and it is mere child's play for us great sharpers when we find such easy gulls. SCENE IV.--MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI. MR. POUR. (_thinking himself alone_). _Piglialo sù, piglialo sù, Signor Monsu_. What the deuce does it all mean? (_Seeing_ SBRIGANI) Ah! SBRI. What is the matter, Sir? what ails you? MR. POUR. Everything I see seems injection. SBRI. How is that? MR. POUR. You can't think what has happened to me in that house where you took me. SBRI. No! What has happened? MR. POUR. I thought I should be well feasted there. SBRI. Well? MR. POUR. I leave you in this gentleman's hands. Doctors dressed in black. In a chair. Feel the pulse. In proof of what I say. He is mad. Two big, fat-faced fellows, with large-brimmed hats. _Buon dì, buon dì._ Six pantaloons. Ta, ra, ta, toi, ta, ra, ta, ta, toi. _Allegramente, Monsu Pourceaugnac._ Take, Sir; take, take. It is gentle, gentle, gentle. _Piglialo sù, Signor Monsu; piglialo, piglialo sù._ I never was so surfeited with absurdities in all my life. SBRI. What does it all mean?