_Count._ Hush!--(_Makes signs to Susan to take his part._) My dear Rosina---- _Countess._ No, no, my Lord! I am no longer that Rosina whom you formerly loved with such affection!--I am now nothing but the poor Countess of Almaviva! A neglected Wife, and not a beloved Mistress. _Count._ Nay, do not make my humiliation too severe--(_His suspicions again in part revive._) But wherefore, my Lady, have you been thus mysterious on this occasion? _Countess._ That I might not betray that headlong thoughtless Figaro. _Count._ What! He wrote the anonymous billet then? _Countess._ It was without my knowledge, my Lord. _Count._ But you were afterwards informed of it? _Countess._ Certainly. _Count._ Who did he give it to? _Countess._ Basil-- _Count._ Who sent it me by a Peasant--Indeed, Mr. Basil.--Yes, vile Thrummer, thou shalt pay for all! _Countess._ But where is the justice of refusing that pardon to others we stand so much in need of ourselves? If ever I could be brought to forgive, it should only be on condition of passing a general amnesty. _Count._ I acknowledge my guilt. (_The Countess stands in the middle of the stage, the Count a little in the back ground, as if expressive of his timidity, but his countenance shews he is confident of obtaining his pardon--Susan stands forwarder than either, and her looks are significantly applicable to the circumstances of both parties._) _Susan._ To suspect a man in my Lady’s dressing-room!-- _Count._ And to be thus severely punished for my suspicion!-- _Susan._ Not to believe my Lady when she _assured_ you it was her Woman! _Count._ Ah!----(_with affected confusion_) Deign, Madam, once more, to repeat my pardon. _Countess._ Have I already pronounced it, Susan? _Susan._ Not that I heard, Madam. _Count._ Let the gentle sentence then escape. _Countess._ And do you merit it, ungrateful man? (_with tenderness._) _Count._ (_Looking at Susan, who returns his look_) Certainly, my Lady. _Countess._ A fine example I set you, Susan! (_The Count takes her hand and kisses it._) Who, hereafter, will dread a Woman’s anger? (_Countess turns her head towards Susan, and laughs as she says this._) _Susan._ (_In the same tone_) Yes, yes, Madam--I observe----Men may well accuse us of frailty. _Count._ And yet I cannot, for the soul of me, forget the agony, Rosina, in which you seemed to be just now! Your cries, your tears, your----How was it possible, this being a Fiction, you should so suddenly give it the tragic tone of a Reality?--Ha! ha! ha!--So astonishingly natural! _Countess._ You see your Page, and I dare say your Lordship was not sorry for the mistake--I’m sure the sight of Susan does not give you offence. _Count._ Hem!--Offence! Oh! No, no, no--But what’s the reason, you malicious little hussey, you did not come when I called? _Susan._ What! Undress’d, my Lord?