He was delighted to perceive that Baluzzi stood amidst the faithful, who surrounded him like a lightning-laden cloud, and hoped that at the coming discharge some unexpected blow would fall upon the intruder's head. The curtain rose when the overture ceased, the audience listened in breathless expectation; Figaro's song was tempestuously applauded. Giulia's friends aired their enthusiasm; their opponents, on the other hand, wished to make the contrast all the more conspicuous by previously helping a mediocre baritone to a brilliant success. The singer was quite amazed at the unusual storm of approval with which he was greeted; he bowed his acknowledgments amid the most beautiful dreams of a future that fluttered through his mind; at last his great talent had met with merited recognition; in spirit he saw himself already as the first baritone at the Berlin Court opera house. Then the street was changed into Bartolo's room. Rosina appeared. Böller, always ready for service, hurled his wreaths behind the footlights, and gave the signal for applause; the young merchant guards in the pit joined in, also Kuhl and Schöner, and several unconcerned listeners in the stalls. But simultaneously Buschmann and Spiegeler discharged their infernal machines--a hissing arose, as when fire and water are mingled. Others again commanded silence. Rosina began in a frightened voice; her heart, indeed, was heavy, but the power of the music soon carried her away above that dull oppression. She sang with all her feelings-- "And every power fails, Love remains victor." She sang with grace, she knew how to impart such fervour even to these light winged passages, that, even before a partial judge, she would surely have gained her cause. But here there was not even a question of partizanship, her doom was already decided upon and sealed. Hardly had she ended the triumphant song of the power of love, when an unrestrained storm broke loose. Her friends' applause was entirely overpowered by the noise and hissing which issued from pit and gallery; for a moment she seemed to stand in the pillory. In vain Basilio sought to waft to the audience a whispered, almost inaudible, _aria_ upon calumny. For a few bars he gained an attentive silence, the song was as appropriate as if improvised, but when he continued to sing-- "How it passes from tongue to tongue Nothing but words to inflate the lung, First a smile and then a scowl First a murmur then a howl,"