After reading the letter, said Figaro--“And a sad old fellow is that same guardian--a miser, a monster, a wretch.” Again the barber was brought up short--the doctor had left his house again--going to see a patient. And he left strict injunctions to let no one enter while he was away; though, if Don Basilio came--let him wait outside. A stream of condemnation for Don Basilio--who, truth to say, was a rival of Figaro’s. “A match-maker by trade,” said Figaro; “a penniless, know-nothing rapscallion, who had recently set up as a music master. A long, lank, lean man, with a nose like a hook; and he taught Rosina music too!” “Chink--chink.” This speaking sound was the passage of gold from count to barber. Barber engaged upon _that_ argument to do all things. Clearly the first thing to do was to get into the house. One second, and the barber had it. A regiment had just arrived--the count must disguise himself as a soldier and present a billet. The count was charmed with the idea; and the barber was charmed with himself. “Chink--chink,” from the barber’s purse. Another thought. He must be drunk--’twould put the guardian off his guard--what _gentleman_ would be drunk! So, on the very best terms with each other, the count and the barber walked off to put their plans into execution. 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.