AS SHE BIDS HER FAREWELLS from the stage, Marguerite curtsies to the gelding. She reprises a couplet that a poet of great celebrity has penned for the occasion:
But let old charmers yield to new;
Happy soil, adieu! adieu!
The audience murmurs at her pretty sportsmanship. They crane to examine the castrato, who is perched in the composer's private box, shielding his smile with a gloved and demure hand. He whispers in the composer's ear, promising, Together we will delight them.
The composer, prompted, flatters the castrato, but he is interrupted: My timbre is flawless, yes. But it is the cruelty of my condition that will afford them such unbearable pleasures.
Marguerite, suddenly immodest, makes a rude gesture from the stage. She grabs her genitals lovingly. She flicks her hand from beneath her chin. Her wrist snaps in the air with wonderful elasticity.