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every music room in the principality to the day of his death, with notes that would have frightened a peacock. As long as he sang, poor man! I considered myself as having a salary on the musical establishment at the rate of two hundred ducats per month.

Jean. Aye; God send that all the old Marquises in these parts would croak for us at this rate.

Countess. I have no reason to complain: my present friend bleeds as freely as any of his predecessors.

Jean. So he should, my lady. Such nonsense as he writes ought not to be praised for a trifle. I would not do it, I'm sure.

Countess. Dost thou ever praise then for profit?

Jean. To be honest with you, Madam, I have done it, as who has not? But never since I entered your Ladyship's service; for why should you reward me for praising you, when all the world does it for nothing?—No, no, my Lady; you are too wise for that.

Countess. There is somebody at the door.

Jean. It is Hovelberg.

Countess. Open then, but let nobody else in.

Countess. I am happy to see you, dear Hovelberg; and this gentleman also, (curtesying to the Bar.) I know it is only a friend, whom we