(VIOLETTA _runs to the window to see if the_ KNAVE _is in sight. The_ CHANCELLOR _returns and knocks._)

CHANCELLOR. The King wishes to come in.

VIOLETTA. But the checkers!

CHANCELLOR. The Knights of the Checker Board have taken them away.

VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really.

CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes.

VIOLETTA. No, I didn't--at least, I said twenty minutes for them to get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them to become brown. That makes forty--don't you remember?

CHANCELLOR. I shall carry your message to His Majesty.

(VIOLETTA _again runs to the window and peers anxiously up the road._)

CHANCELLOR (_knocking loudly_). The King commands you to open the door.

VIOLETTA. Commands! Tell him--Is he there--with you?

CHANCELLOR. His Majesty is at the door.

VIOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude indeed. I don't see how you can be so rude--to command me, your own Violetta who loves you so. (_She again looks in vain for the_ KNAVE.) Oh, dear!

(_Wringing her hands_) Where can he be!

POMPDEBILE (_outside_). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worried we are? It is a compliment to you--

VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care--only I'm sure they are not finished.

(_She opens the door for the_ KING, the CHANCELLOR, _and the two_ PASTRY COOKS. _The_ KING _walks to his throne. He finds_ LADY VIOLETTA'S _lace handkerchief on it._)

POMPDEBILE (_holding up handkerchief_). What is this?

VIOLETTA. Oh, that's my handkerchief.

POMPDEBILE. It is very damp. Can it be that you are anxious, that you are afraid?

VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always does after cooking; (_to the_ PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there was no towel, so I used my handkerchief instead of my petticoat, which is made of chiffon and is very perishable.

CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work?

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 ent.i.tled 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._)

YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts.

BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted!

(URSULA _enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle._)

URSULA. Here, here--What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet mistress!

POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts.