POMPDEBILE.  Remember that they are to go in the museum with the tests of the previous Queens.

VIOLETTA (thoughtfully).  Oh, yes, I had forgotten that.  Under the circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar.  We don’t want them too crumbly.  They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully.  The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come.  Now I dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice little boy’s raspberry jam—­I’m sorry I have to use it all, but you may lick the spoon—­put them in the oven, slam the door.  Now, my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest.

(She curtsies before the KING.)

POMPDEBILE.  It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with which you performed your task.  You must have been practising for weeks.  This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of checkers once more.  How long a time will it take for your creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested?

VIOLETTA (considering).  About twenty minutes, Pompy.

POMPDEBILE (to HERALD).  Inform the people.  Come, we will retire. (To KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands.

(All exit, left, except the KNAVE. He stands in deep thought, his chin in hand—­then exits slowly, right.  The room is empty.  The cuckoo clock strikes.  Presently both right and left doors open stealthily.  Enter LADY VIOLETTA at one door, the KNAVE at the other, backward, looking down the passage.  They turn suddenly and see each other.)

VIOLETTA (tearfully).  O Knave, I can’t cook!  Anything—­anything at all, not even a baked potato.

KNAVE.  So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago.

VIOLETTA (pleadingly).  Don’t you think it might just happen that they turned out all right? (Whispering) Take them out of the oven.  Let’s look.

KNAVE.  That’s what I intended to do before you came in.  It’s possible that a miracle has occurred.

(He tries the door of the oven.)

VIOLETTA.  Look out; it’s hot.  Here, take my handkerchief.

KNAVE.  The gods forbid, My Lady.

(He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out the pan, which he puts on the table softly.)

VIOLETTA (with a look of horror) How queer!  They’ve melted or something.  See, they are quite soft and runny.  Do you think that they will be good for anything, Knave?

KNAVE.  For paste, My Lady, perhaps.

VIOLETTA.  Oh, dear.  Isn’t it dreadful!

KNAVE.  It is.

VIOLETTA (beginning to cry).  I don’t want to be banished, especially on a mule—­

KNAVE.  Don’t cry, My Lady.  It’s very—­upsetting.

VIOLETTA.  I would make a delightful queen.  The fetes that I would give—­under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the shadows, fetes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young—­like you and me, Knave—­would find the glowing flowers of youth ready to be gathered in all their dewy freshness!