_Count._ But why didn’t you answer then? _Susan._ My Lady forbad me: and good reason she had so to do. _Count._ Such distraction in your countenance! (_To the Countess_) Nay, it’s not calm even yet! _Countess._ Oh you--you fancy so my Lord. _Count._ Men, I perceive, are poor Politicians--Women make Children of us----Were his Majesty wise, he would name you, and not me, for his Ambassador. _Enter_ FIGARO, _chearfully; perceives the Count, who puts on a very serious air_. _Fig._ They told me my Lady was indisposed, I ran to enquire, and am very happy to find there was nothing in it. _Count._ You are very attentive. _Fig._ It is my duty so to be, my Lord. (_Turns to Susan._) Come, come, my Charmer! Prepare for the Ceremony! Go to your Bridemaids. _Count._ But who is to guard the Countess in the mean time? _Figaro._ (_Surprised_) Guard her, my Lord! My Lady seems very well: she wants no guarding. _Count._ From the Gallant, who was to profit by my absence? (_Susan and the Countess make signs to Figaro._) _Countess._ Nay, nay, Figaro, the Count knows all. _Susan._ Yes, yes, we have told my Lord every thing.--The jest is ended--Its all over. _Figaro._ The jest is ended!--And its all over! _Count._ Yes--Ended, ended, ended!----And all over--What have you to say to that? _Fig._ Say, my Lord! (_The confusion of Figaro arises from not supposing it possible the Countess and Susan should have betrayed him, and when he understands something by their signs, from not knowing how much they have told._) _Count._ Ay, say. _Fig._ I--I--I wish I could say as much of my Marriage. _Count._ And who wrote the pretty Letter? _Figaro._ Not I, my Lord. _Count._ If I did not know thou liest, I could read it in thy face. _Figaro._ Indeed, my Lord!--Then it is my face that lies; and not I. _Countess._ Pshaw, Figaro! Why should you endeavour to conceal any thing, when I tell you we have confess’d all? _Susan._ (_Making signs to Figaro_) We have told my Lord of the Letter, which made him suspect that Hannibal, the Page, who is far enough off by this, was hid in my Lady’s dressing-room, where I myself was lock’d in. _Figaro._ Well, well, since my Lord will have it so, and my Lady will have it so, and you all will have it so, why then so let it be. _Count._ Still at his Wiles.---- _Countess._ Why, my Lord, would you oblige him to speak truth, so much against his inclination? (_Count and Countess walk familiarly up the stage._) _Susan._ Hast thou seen the Page? _Fig._ Yes, yes: you have shook his young joints for him, among you. _Enter_ ANTONIO, _the Gardener, with a broken Flower-pot under his arm half drunk_.