_FIRST SCENE_.

THE QUEEN _in a plaited coronation robe, on the throne_. THE PAINTER _with palette in hand, painting_. A CHILD _as_ CUPID, _suspended by the waist, swings on_ THE QUEEN'S _left, holding a crown over her head. The background and the right of the stage are occupied by ladies and gentlemen of the court, among them_ THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR, THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR, THE MARQUIS IN PINK, and MARQUIS IN PALE BLUE.

SONG OF THE MAIDS OF HONOUR.

(Led by The Marquis in Pale Blue.)

Zephyr rises at the dawn From the budding pillows of the roses.

Lo, he will cool his hot desire In the silvery dew, Since he must console himself That his dream still fans the flame, And that Luna's icy kiss Does but touch his parched mouth.

And Aurora's violet pa.s.sion Looks on him with floods of tears.

Ah! What matters Luna's favour?-- She knows not how to kiss.

The Queen (_yawning_).

The pretty verses which you have just sung to sweeten this long posing for me, grieve me slightly. Yet--aside from that--accept my thanks.

The Marquis in Pale Blue.

Oh, your Majesty!

The Queen.

Are you a poet, Marquis?

The Marquis in Pale Blue.

Oh, your Majesty, up to this time I have not been; but who should not speak in verse where this magic enthrals us, where our hearts are habitually broken, and Cupid himself bears the royal crown?

(Cupid _begins to cry_).

First Maid of Honour.

What is the matter with him?

Second Maid of Honour.

Ah, the sweet child!

First Maid of Honour.

Be good! Nice and good! Here is a sweetmeat!

Cupid.

I want to get down! My legs are cold.

The Queen.

Oh, fie! The word offends my ears.

The Marquis In Pink.

Pardon him, your Majesty, the saucy child surely does not know that in your presence one can speak only of roses, lilies, and such delicate things.

The Queen.

It seems to me that the little fellow lacks education.

The Marquis in Pale Blue.

Hereafter, only children from superior families should be chosen for this purpose.

The Queen.

And you, respected artist, have no word to say?

The Painter.

It is not fitting that every one should speak. I am engaged to paint, not to make speeches. Still, may I ask you to send the boy away?

(The Queen _laughing, makes a sign. Two maids of honour set him free_.)

The Marquis In Pink.

What a way of speaking!

The Marquis in Pale Blue.

What a plebeian!

The Marquis In Pink.

How self-conscious!

The Marquis in Pale Blue.

And she dotes on him!

The Queen.

Nay, dear master, speak! For rarely do I have the pleasure of finding my thought sympathetically stimulated by the thought of another. I do so like to think--I like to _feel_ perhaps even better--yet these gentlemen talk as if they were in a fever.

The Marquises.

Oh, your Majesty!

The Queen.