already received an affirmative?  We can think as we please; the musical effect is delicious.  Figaro’s coming interrupts further conversation, and as Susanna leaves the room with her, she drops a remark to Figaro, which the Count overhears:  “Hush!  We have won our case without a lawyer.”  What does it mean?  Treachery, of course.  Possibly Marcellina’s silence has been purchased.  But whence the money?  The Count’s amour propre is deeply wounded at the thought that his menials should outwit him and he fail of his conquest.  He swears that he will be avenged upon both.  Apparently he has not long to wait, for Marcellina, Don Curzio, and Bartolo enter, followed by Figaro.  Don Curzio announces the decision of the court in the duenna’s suit against Figaro.  He must pay or marry, according to the bond.  But Figaro refuses to abide by the decision.  He is a gentleman by birth, as proved by the jewels and costly clothing found upon him when he was recovered from some robbers who stole him when a babe, and he must have the consent of his parents.  He has diligently sought them and will prove his identity by a mark upon his arm.  “A spatula on the right elbow?” anxiously inquires Marcellina.  “Yes.”  And now Bartolo and the duenna, who a moment ago would fain have made him an OEdipus, recognize in Figaro their own son, born out of wedlock.  He rushes to their arms and is found embracing his mother most tenderly by Susanna, who comes with a purse to repay the loan.  She flies into a passion and boxes Figaro’s ears before the situation is explained, and she is made as happy by the unexpected denouement as the Count and Don Curzio are miserable.  Bartolo resolves that there shall be a double wedding; he will do tardy justice to Marcellina.  Now we see the Countess again in her lamentable mood, mourning the loss of her husband’s love. (Aria:  “Dove sono.”) Susanna comes to tell of her appointment with the Count.  The place, “in the garden,” seems to be lacking in clearness, and the Countess proposes that it be made more definite and certain (as the lawyers say), by means of a letter which shall take the form of a “Song to the Zephyr.”  This is the occasion of the exquisite duet which was surely in the mind of the composer’s father when, writing to his daughter from Vienna after the third performance of the opera, he said:  “One little duet had to be sung three times.”  Was there ever such exquisite dictation and transcription?  Can any one say, after hearing this “Canzonetta sull’ aria,” that it is unnatural to melodize conversation?  With what gracious tact the orchestra gives time to Susanna to set down the words of her mistress!  How perfect is the musical reproduction of inquiry and repetition when a phrase escapes the memory of the writer!

[Musical excerpt—­Susanna:  “sotto i pini?” Conte:  “Sotto i pini del boschetto.”]

The letter is written, read over phrase by phrase, and sealed with a pin which the Count is to return as proof that he has received the note.