We shall have to go on. Proceed.

VIOLETTA. Without the raspberry jam?

POMPDEBILE (_to_ KNAVE). Go you, and procure some. I will give a hundred golden guineas for it.

(_The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes forward._)

BOY. Please, Your Majesty, I have some.

POMPDEBILE. You! Where?

BOY. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my cinnamon jar--I could get it.

(UBSULA _takes it. The boy struggles with his pocket and finally, triumphantly, pulls out a small jar._)

There!

VIOLETTA. How clever of you! Do you always do that?

BOY. What--eat raspberry jam?

VIOLETTA. No, supply the exact article needed from your pocket.

BOY. I eat it for my lunch. Please give me the hundred guineas.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes--Chancellor--if I may trouble you.

(_Holding out her hand._)

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, this is an outrage! Are you going to allow this?

POMPDEBILE (_sadly_). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsive nature!

(_The_ LADY VIOLETTA _receives the money._)

VIOLETTA. Thank you. (_She gives it to the boy._) Now we are ready to begin. Milk, please. (_The boy who holds the milk jar comes forward and kneels._) I take some of this milk and beat it well.

YELLOW HOSE (_in a whisper_). _Beat_ it--milk!

VIOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, taking great care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (_To the little boy_) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, and then--one pound of b.u.t.ter. I hope that it is good b.u.t.ter, or the whole thing will be quite spoiled.

BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have ever witnessed.

YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it.

VIOLETTA (_stirring_). I find that the b.u.t.ter is _not_ very good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more pepper to counteract it. That's better. (_She pours in pepper. The boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently._) Oh, oh, dear! Lend him your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE _silences the boy's sneezes with the_ KNAVE'S _handkerchief._) I think that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad, Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smile nicely--a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now for a dash of vinegar.

COOKS (_in horror_). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar!

VIOLETTA (_stops stirring_). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do you like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you, you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all the wives how to please all the husbands.

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 circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sage. 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 G.o.ds 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!

KNAVE. Ah!