_Antonio._ My Lord--My good Lord--If so be as your Lordship will not have the goodness to have these Windows nailed up, I shall never have a Nosegay fit to give to my Lady--They break all my pots, and spoil my flowers; for they not only throw other Rubbish out of the windows, as they used to do, but they have just now tossed out a Man. _Count._ A Man!--(_The Count’s suspicions all revive._) _Antonio._ In white stockings! (_Countess and Susan discover their fears, and make signs to Figaro to assist them if possible._) _Count._ Where is the Man? (_Eagerly._) _Antonio._ That’s what I want to know, my Lord!--I wish I could find him,--I am your Lordship’s Gardener; and, tho’ I say it, a better Gardener is not to be found in all Spain;--but if Chambermaids are permitted to toss men out of the window to save their own Reputation, what is to become of mine?--{{“It will wither with my flowers to be sure.”}} _Figaro._ Oh fie! What sotting so soon in a morning? _Antonio._ Why, can one begin one’s day’s work too early? _Count._ Your day’s work, Sir? _Antonio._ Your Lordship knows my Niece, there she stands, is to be married to day; and I am sure she would never forgive me if---- _Count._ If you were not to get drunk an hour sooner than usual--But on with your story, Sir--What of the Man?--What followed? _Antonio._ I followed him myself, my Lord, as fast as I could; but, somehow, I unluckily happened to make a false step, and came with such a confounded whirl against the Garden-gate--that I--I quite for--forgot my Errand. _Count._ And should you know this man again? _Antonio._ To be sure I should, my Lord!--If I had seen him, that is. _Count._ Either speak more clearly, Rascal, or I’ll send you packing to---- _Antonio._ Send me packing, my Lord?--Oh, no! If your Lordship has not enough--enough (_Points to his forehead_) to know when you have a good Gardener, I warrant I know when I have a good Place. _Figaro._ There is no occasion, my Lord, for all this mystery! It was I who jump’d out of the window into the garden. _Count._ You? _Figaro._ My own self, my Lord. _Count._ Jump out of a one pair of stairs window and run the risk of breaking your Neck? _Figaro._ The ground was soft, my Lord. _Antonio._ And his Neck is in no danger of being broken. _Figaro._ To be sure I hurt my right leg, a little, in the fall; just here at the ancle--I feel it still. (_Rubbing his ancle._) _Count._ But what reason had you to jump out of the window? _Figaro._ You had received my letter, my Lord, since I must own it, and was come, somewhat sooner than I expected, in a dreadful passion, in search of a man.-- _Antonio._ If it was you, you have grown plaguy fast within this half hour, to my thinking. The man that I saw did not seem so tall by the head and shoulders. _Figaro._ Pshaw! Does not one double one’s self up when one takes a leap? _Antonio._ It seem’d a great deal more like the Page. _Count._ The Page!