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.