_Page._ Is that Agnes, yonder? (_He approaches_) By her long Lappets and white Feathers, it must be Susan. (_Comes up and takes hold of the Countess’s hand_. Ah, my dear Susan! _Countess._ Let me go. (_In a feigned voice._) _Page._ Come, Come; don’t be so coy. I know it is not Figaro you are waiting for, it is my Lord the Count--What! Did not I hear, this Morning, when I was behind the great Chair? _Susan._ (_Aside_). The babbling little Villain. _Enter the_ COUNT _behind, and hears the Page_. _Count._ Is not that somebody with Susan?--(_Advances close up to them, and draws back in a fury_).--’Tis that infernal Page again. (_Susan keeps out of the way and silently laughing._) _Page._ ’Tis in vain to say no:--Since thou art going to be the Representative of the Countess, I am determined to give the one kiss for thyself, and a hundred for thy beauteous Lady. {{_Susan._ (_Aside_). “As impudent as a Page, says the Proverb.”}} (_The Countess draws back to avoid being kissed by the Page, and the Count advances and presents himself in her place; the Page feels the rough beard of the Count, and suddenly retreats, crying in an under voice_)--Oh, the Devil!--The Count again! (_Exit Page into the Pavilion on the left._) (_While this passes, Figaro likewise advances to drive the Page from Susan; meanwhile the Count, on the Page’s supposed next approach, prepares to give him a proper reception_). _Count._ (_Thinking he speaks to the Page_). Since you are so fond of kissing, take that. (_Gives Figaro a severe box on the ear_). _Figaro._ I have paid for listening. (_Susan cannot contain herself, but bursts out a laughing_). _Count._ (_Hears her laugh_). Why this is inconceiveable!--Do such Salutations make the impudent Rascal laugh? _Figaro._ It would be strange if he should cry this time. (_Aside_). (_Count and Countess approach_). _Count._ But let us not lose the precious moments, my charming Susan!--Let these Kisses speak my ardour! (_Kisses the Countess several times with rapture_). _Figaro._ (_Aside, and beating his forehead_). Oh! Oh! Oh! _Count._ Why dost thou tremble? _Countess._ (_Continuing her feigned voice_). Because I am afraid. _Count._ Thou seemest to have got a cold. (_Takes the Countess’s hand between his own, and amorously strokes and kisses her fingers_). What a sweet, delicate, Angel’s hand!--How smooth and soft!--How long and small the fingers!--What pleasure in the touch!--Ah! How different is this from the Countess’s hand!-- _Countess._ (_Sighing_). And yet you loved her once. _Count._ Yes--Yes--I did so--But three Years of better Acquaintance has made the Marriage-state so respectable--And then Wives are so loving--when they _do_ love, that is--that one is surprised when in search of Pleasure, to find Satiety. _Countess._ Pleasure?--Love!