] Here, here! that will restore him
to life--five-year-old wine.

_Nina._ He is reviving!

_Crispino._ Oh, this wine would make the dead rise!

_Moracchio._ Courage, courage, sir, I say!

_Timoteo._ [_With bottles, glasses, and a razor._] Here I am. Quick,
undress him!

_Moracchio._ What is the razor for?

_Timoteo._ In case of need, it is better than a lancet.

_Crispino._ A razor?

_Nina._ What?

_Evarist._ [_Gets up._] Oh ho! who wants to cut my throat with a razor?

_Nina._ The apothecary.

_Timoteo._ Excuse me; I am an honest man, and no assassin. When one has
the best intentions, it is not right to make one appear ridiculous. See
whether I will come another time. [_Exit._

_Moracchio._ Won't you step into my house, sir, and rest on my bed?

_Evarist._ Wherever you like.

_Moracchio._ Take my arm and lean on me.

_Evarist._ Oh, how much rather I would that my miserable life were
ended! [_Walks off, leaning on_ Moracchio.]

_Nina._ [_Aside._] If he wanted to die, he could not have done better
than give himself up to the apothecary.

_Moracchio._ Here we are at the door. Let us go in.

_Evarist._ Useless kindness to him who only asks to die. [_They enter._]

_Moracchio._ Nina, get the bed ready for Signor Evarist.

_Crispino._ [_As she is going to enter, calls her._] Nina!

_Nina._ What is it?

_Crispino._ You are wonderfully compassionate for this gentleman.

_Nina._ I do my duty, because you and I are the cause of his illness.

_Crispino._ Speak for yourself, there I can't answer. But I? What have I
to do with him?

_Nina._ Because of that accursed fan. [_Goes in._]

_Crispino._ Accursed fan, indeed! I have now heard it named millions of
times! But I am glad to think I did Coronato. He is my enemy, and will
be so till Nina is my wife. But what now? I could bury this fan in the
ground; but if it be trodden on, it will break. What shall I do with it.
[_Pulls out the fan._]

[Limonato _crosses from his cafe to the inn._]

_Count._ [_From out the inn._] The dinner was excellent! For once I have
eaten my fill.

_Crispino._ [_Aside._] Ho, ho, the Count. Shall I--Yes, that will be the
best way. [_Advances towards him, fan in hand._]

_Count._ What is that you have in your hand?

_Crispino._ A fan. I found it on the ground.

_Count._ [_Takes it._] A lady must have lost it in passing by. What will
you do with it?

_Crispino._ I really don't know.

_Count._ Do you want to sel