VIOLETTA (sadly).  Yes.  That’s all they care about here.  One may be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if one can’t cook nobody loves one at all.

KNAVE.  Beasts!  My higher nature cries out at them for holding such views.  Fools!  Swine!  But my lower nature whispers that perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement—­

VIOLETTA.  Then you think that there is nothing to be done—­I shall have to be banished?

KNAVE.  I’m afraid—­Wait, I have an idea! (Excitedly) Dulcinea, my wife—­her name is Dulcinea—­made known to me this morning, very forcibly—­Yes, I remember, I’m sure—­Yes, she was going to bake this very morning some raspberry tarts—­a dish in which she particularly excels—­If I could only procure some of them and bring them here!

VIOLETTA.  Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean, would you?  Is there time?  The court will return.

(They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily.)

KNAVE.  I shall run as fast as I can.  Don’t let anyone come in until I get back, if you can help it.

(He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window.)

VIOLETTA.  Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it.  It is the custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her coronation.  I shall ask that you be made Chancellor.

KNAVE (turning back).  Oh, please don’t, My Lady, I implore you.

VIOLETTA.  Why not?

KNAVE.  It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I would rather die than possess.  Oh, how we argue about that, my wife and I!  Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, the less she cooks.  Should you have me made Chancellor, she would never wield a spoon again.

VIOLETTA (pursing her lips).  But it doesn’t seem fair, exactly.  Think of how much I shall be indebted to her.  If she enjoys social position, I might as well give her some.  We have lots and lots of it lying around.

KNAVE.  She wouldn’t, My Lady, she wouldn’t enjoy it.  Dulcinea is a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies solely in using his gift.  If she didn’t cook she would be miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I’m perfectly sure.

VIOLETTA.  Then I shall take all social position away from you.  You shall rank below the scullery maids.  Do you like that better?  Hurry, please.

KNAVE.  Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly.

(He goes out with the tarts. VIOLETTA listens anxiously for a minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers and practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey.  She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers the mule standing outside the gates of the palace.  That thought saddens her, so she curls up in POMPDEBILE’S throne and cries softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief.  There is a knock.  She flies to the door and holds it shut.)