He has no opinion, your Majesty!

The Queen.

What a pity! One hears now and then this thing and that thing, yet that seems to me insipid above all things. And one must be strict and always be suppressing--suppressing. You don't need that. So I tell you discreetly, I can't resist the suspicion that my beauty is leaving me.

Yes, indeed. And besides that, I am growing old. Yes, indeed. I am almost thirty, and the matron has to go to the rear. I indeed do what I can. They take great pains with me. And my late brother used to send me a beauty powder from the holy sepulchre which was good for my complexion. Then it is my habit to wash myself with the extract of lilies, and off and on to nibble at a.r.s.enic bonbons. That is very good--the eyes flash, and the blood comes to the cheeks....

(_Alarmed_.) It seems to me I am confiding in you.

The Painter.

Consider me as a thing--as a slave!

The Queen.

And you know how to be silent? Tell me--swear!

The Painter.

What you did not will me to hear, that I have not heard. What I did not hear, I cannot keep as a secret.

The Queen.

Lofty sentiment and n.o.ble will find expression in you. So, in all silence, I may show your heart what favours are granted to you.

The Painter (_tremulously_).

Am I worth it? And if you regret it to-morrow?

The Queen.

I do not know a to-morrow nor a to-day. My weary sense with crippled wing never strays into the far future, for ah! I, poor, poor Queen, suffer from intense melancholy. I have too much feeling. I have told you that already, and then I am tired of my throne in this world of dreary elegance, where----

The Painter.

Your Majesty! Remember the ladies there!

The Queen.

Ah, the ladies! No chance favours me. That you have perceived already.

Yet there is no question of the ladies. One doesn't hear a word; the other sleeps, even while standing up.

The Painter.

Sure enough.... Yet when I consider----

The Queen.

Consider nothing.... Give me only a consoling word, which in the sultriness of this perverted nature may penetrate my soul like a breath from the forest. You are a man!

The Painter (_laughing to himself_).

Who has lost his head!

The Queen.

So I saw him in my dreams. I feel, too, that you could quite overflow, and I am a little afraid of it.

The Painter.

(_Controlling himself with difficulty_.) Oh, fear nothing. I know very well the barrier between me and the height of your throne. Not a desire, not a thought, rises to you.

The Queen.

And yet you think that I am beautiful?

The Painter (_impulsively_).

Yes, you are beautiful! You--(_restraining himself_). Your Majesty, I beg you to turn a little more to the left.

The Queen.

(_Turns her head quite to the left_.) So?

The Painter.

Yes.

The Queen.

What are you painting now?

The Painter.

Your hand.

The Queen (_pointing to her face_).

And it is for that, that I am to turn to the left?

The Painter.

I meant, just to the centre.

The Queen.

Is the hand well posed?

The Painter.