 | The Wife |  |
SCENE I.
—A Street.Enter Bartolo, Bernardo, Carlo, and others.
Bar.
Hush, signors! speak softly! 'Tis treason, and we
may be hanged for it.—So the matter stands! The young
duchess, I fear me, is an old sinner—and what a saint she
looked! Let no man marry a wife who looks like a saint.
Please Providence, mine shall be as ill-favoured as Satan!
Ber.
'Tis the way to make sure of a wife.
Bar.
It is, signor. Such is the value of beauty. Let any
man take his own case. Now myself, for instance—How
many a scrape should I have avoided, had I been born as ill-favoured
as some people! He is the happiest man, be
assured, whom no one has reason to envy.—Now, thou art a
happy man, Bernardo.
Ber.
I thank you, Signor Bartolo.
Car.
But when happened this?
Bar.
I told you it happened about half an hour ago.
Ber.
Prithee, signor, tell it us again?
Well then, draw near; but remember you are sworn
to secrecy.
All.
We are, we are!
Bar.
You know I am fond of the news—though I have as
little curiosity as any man. Well, where can one get news if
not at the palace? So, to the palace I went this morning, as
I do every morning.—Few persons have constant admittance at
the palace, as I have, for they are people of discretion at the
palace, and suffer not rogues that come peeping and prying
—spies and blabbers—scoundrels of no trust or honesty—
but I have admittance to the palace, for they know me.
Ber.
Well!
Bar.
When I entered it, all was confusion! One running
this way, another that way. One whispering this person,
and every one with wonder in his looks! I warrant you I
did not look the figure of wonder too!
Car.
Go on, good Bartolo.
Bar.
Well: I happen to have a friend or two at the palace
—Lucky for me that I have so—There is no doing anything
there without a friend.—“Would that such a one was here,”
said I to myself; and scarce had I said it, when in runs the
very man I was thinking of.
Ber.
Excellent!
Bar.
Just in the nick of time, or I verily believe I should
have died of wonder. At the same time, every one knows I
am the least curious man in all Mantua. Well, in runs my
friend, just in the nick of time.—“The matter?” cried I.
“Treason,” whispered he, “but I dare not breathe it for my
life.”—“What is it?” said I; “I'll be as mute as the marble
under my feet.”—“You shall hear it,” cried he, “for you are
a lad of discretion, and have a guard upon your tongue.” You
see, signors, that I have a character at the palace!
Ber.
Go on, Bartolo.
Bar.
Well! as I told you before, the substance was this—
and nothing more nor less. Julian St. Pierre, who has lately
returned to the court, and for his wild practices would have
been dismissed from it many a year ago, but for the favour of
the duke Ferrardo,—this Julian St. Pierre, I say, was half an
hour ago discovered stealing from the ante-room that leads to
the duchess's chamber, and secured upon the spot.
Ber. and Carlo.
Go on!
Bar.
I have no more to tell you—You know as much as I
do.—But be discreet! A silent tongue betokens a wise head!
I cannot stay with you longer. I have some friends in the
next street to see; others in the street beyond!—more again,
in the street beyond that! I know not how many I have to
see! I have the whole city to see. Now be discreet!—
remember I got it as I give it, on promise of secrecy—Be
discreet!—discovered half an hour ago, stealing from the ante-room
that leads to the duchess's chamber!—Be discreet, I say
—A silent tongue, a wise head!—Be discreet—Be discreet!
[They go out severally.
| The Wife | |