[The Count snatches the key, and goes to the dressing-room door; the Countess throws herself at his feet.]

Countess—­Have mercy, Count!  Spare this poor child; and although the disorder in which you will find him—­

Count—­What, Madame?  What do you mean?  What disorder?

Countess—­He was just changing his coat—­his neck and arms are bare—­

[The Countess throws herself into a chair and turns away her head.]

Count [running to the dressing-room]—­Come out here, you young villain!

Count [seeing Susanna come out of the dressing-room]—­Eh!  Why, it is Susanna! [Aside.] What, a lesson!

Susanna [mocking him]—­“I will kill him!  I will kill him!” Well, then, why don’t you kill this mischievous page?

Count [to the Countess, who at the sight of Susanna shows the greatest surprise]—­So you also play astonishment, Madame?

Countess—­Why shouldn’t I?

Count—­But perhaps she wasn’t alone in there.  I’ll find out. [He goes into the dressing-room.]

Countess—–­ Susanna, I’m nearly dead.

Count [aside, as he returns]—­No one there!  So this time I really am wrong. [To the Countess, coldly.] You excel at comedy, Madame.

Susanna—­And what about me, sir?

Count—­And so do you.

Countess—­Aren’t you glad you found her instead of Cherubino? [Meaningly.] You are generally pleased to come across her.

Susanna—­Madame ought to have let you break in the doors, call the servants—­

Count—­Yes, it’s quite true—­I’m at fault—­I’m humiliated enough!  But why didn’t you answer, you cruel girl, when I called you?

Susanna—­I was dressing as well as I could—­with the aid of pins, and Madame knew why she forbade me to answer.  She had her lessons.

Count—­Why don’t you help me get pardon, instead of making me out as bad as you can?

Countess—­Did I marry you to be eternally subjected to jealousy and neglect?  I mean to join the Ursulines, and—­

Count—­But, Rosina!

Countess—­I am no longer the Rosina whom you loved so well.  I am only poor Countess Almaviva, deserted wife of a madly jealous husband.

Count—­I assure you, Rosina, this man, this letter, had excited me so—­

Countess—­I never gave my consent.

Count—­What, you knew about it?

Countess—­This rattlepate Figaro, without my sanction—­

Count—­He did it, eh! and Basilio pretended that a peasant brought it.  Crafty wag, ready to impose on everybody!

Countess—­You beg pardon, but you never grant pardon.  If I grant it, it shall only be on condition of a general amnesty.