VIOLETTA.  I don’t understand what you mean by work, Chancellor.  Oh, the tarts! (Nervously) They were quite simple—­quite simple to make—­no work at all—­A little imagination is all one needs for such things, just imagination.  You agree with me, don’t you, Pompy, that imagination will work wonders—­will do almost anything, in fact?  I remember—­

POMPDEBILE.  The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven.

VIOLETTA.  Oh, no, Pompy!  They are not finished or cooked, or whatever one calls it.  They are not.  The last five minutes is of the greatest importance.  Please don’t let them touch them! Please—­

POMPDEBILE.  There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself.  If you wish, they will put them back again.  There can be no harm in looking at them.  Come, I will hold your hand.

VIOLETTA.  That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my hand.

(She scrambles up on the throne beside the KING.)

CHANCELLOR (in horror).  On the throne, Your Majesty?

POMPDEBILE.  Of course not, Chancellor.  We regret that you are not yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear.  In a little while—­

VIOLETTA (coming down).  Oh, I see.  May I sit here, Chancellor, in this seemingly humble position at his feet?  Of course, I can’t really be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying it so much.

POMPDEBILE.  Violetta! (To the PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts.  This suspense is unbearable!

(The KING’S voice is husky with excitement.  The two PASTRY COOKS, after bowing with great ceremony to the KING, to each other, to the CHANCELLOR—­for this is the most important moment of their lives by far—­walk to the oven door and open it, impressively.  They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again).

YELLOW HOSE.  Your Majesty, there are no tarts there!

BLUE HOSE.  Your Majesty, the tarts have gone!

VIOLETTA (clasping her hands).  Gone!  Oh, where could they have gone?

POMPDEBILB (coming down from throne).  That is impossible.

PASTRY COOKS (greatly excited).  You see, you see, the oven is empty as a drum.

POMPDEBILE (to VIOLETTA).  Did you go out of this room?

VIOLETTA (wailing).  Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my nose before the mirror in the pantry. (To PASTRY COOKS) When one cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn’t one?  But if I had thought for one little minute—­

POMPDEBILE (interrupting).  The tarts have been stolen!

VIOLETTA (with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair).  Stolen!  Oh, I shall faint; help me.  Oh, oh, to think that any one would take my delicious little, my dear little tarts.  My salts.  Oh!  Oh!

(PASTRY COOKS run to the door and call.)