ZERBINETTE, GÉRONTE.

ZER
(laughing, without seeing GÉRONTE). Ah, ah! I must really come and breathe a little.

GER
(aside, not seeing ZERBINETTE). Ah! I will make you pay for it.

ZER
(not seeing GÉRONTE). Ah, ah, ah, ah! What an amusing story! What a good dupe that old man is!

GER
This is no matter for laughter; and you have no business to laugh at it.

ZER
Why? What do you mean, Sir?

GER
I mean to say that you ought not to laugh at me.

ZER
Laugh at you?

GER
Yes.
ZER
How! Who is thinking of laughing at you?

GER
Why do you come and laugh in my face?

ZER
This has nothing to do with you. I am only laughing with myself at the remembrance of a story which has just been told me. The most amusing story in the world. I don't know if it is because I am interested in the matter, but I never heard anything so absurd as the trick that has just been played by a son to his father to get some money out of him.

GER
By a son to his father to get some money out of him?

ZER
Yes; and if you are at all desirous of hearing how it was done, I will tell you the whole affair. I have a natural longing for imparting to others the funny things I know.

GER
Pray, tell me that story.

ZER
Willingly. I shall not risk much by telling it you, for it is an adventure which is not likely to remain secret long. Fate placed me among one of those bands of people who are called gypsies, and who, tramping from province to province, tell you your fortune, and do many other things besides. When we came to this town, I met a young man, who, on seeing me, fell in love with me. From that moment he followed me everywhere; and, like all young men, he imagined that he had but to speak and things would go on as he liked; but he met with a pride which forced him to think twice. He spoke of his love to the people in whose power I was, and found them ready to give me up for a certain sum of money. But the sad part of the business was that my lover found himself exactly in the same condition as most young men of good family, that is, without any money at all. His father, although rich, is the veriest old skinflint and greatest miser you ever heard of. Wait a moment—what is his name? I don't remember it—can't you help me? Can't you name some one in this town who is known to be the most hard-fisted old miser in the place?

GER
No.

ZER
There is in his name some Ron...Ronte... Or...Oronte...No. Gé...Géronte. Yes, Géronte, that's my miser's name. I have it now; it is the old churl I mean. Well, to come back to our story. Our people wished to leave this town to-day, and my lover would have lost me through his lack of money if, in order to wrench some out of his father, he had not made use of a clever servant he has. As for that servant's name, I remember it very well. His name is Scapin. He is a most wonderful man, and deserves the highest praise.
GER
(aside). Ah, the wretch!

ZER
But just listen to the plan he adopted to take in his dupe—ah! ah! ah! ah! I can't think of it without laughing heartily—ah! ah! ah! He went to that old screw—ah! ah! ah!—and told him that while he was walking about the harbour with his son—ah! ah!—they noticed a Turkish galley; that a young Turk had invited them to come in and see it; that he had given them some lunch—ah! ah!—and that, while they were at table, the galley had gone into the open sea; that the Turk had sent him alone back, with the express order to say to him that, unless he sent him five hundred crowns, he would take his son to be a slave in Algiers—ah, ah, ah! You may imagine our miser, our stingy old curmudgeon, in the greatest anguish, struggling between his love for his son and his love for his money. Those five hundred crowns that are asked of him are five hundred dagger-thrusts—ah! ah! ah! ah! He can't bring his mind to tear out, as it were, this sum from his heart, and his anguish makes him think of the most ridiculous means to find money for his son's ransom—ah! ah! ah! He wants to send the police into the open sea after the Turk's galley—ah! ah! ah! He asks his servant to take the place of his son till he has found the money to pay for him—money he has no intention of giving—ah! ah! ah! He yields up, to make the five hundred crowns, three or four old suits which are not worth thirty—ah! ah! ah! The servant shows him each time how absurd is what he proposes, and each reflection of the old fellow is accompanied by an agonising, "But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? Ah! cursed galley. Ah! scoundrel of a Turk!" At last, after many hesitations, after having sighed and groaned for a long time...But it seems to me that my story does not make you laugh; what do you say to it?

GER
What I say? That the young man is a scoundrel—a good-for-nothing fellow—who will be punished by his father for the trick he has played him; that the gypsy girl is a bold, impudent hussy to come and insult a man of honour, who will give her what she deserves for coming here to debauch the sons of good families; and that the servant is an infamous wretch, whom Géronte will take care to have hung before to-morrow is over.