Now let us send out a message hastily to the Marshal, that we are gathered in the antechamber, and while this poor dead mouse--no, pardon me sparrow!--stammers his love to her, he, driven by us to extremes, will burst in unannounced--and this fellow is detected.
The Marquis In Pink.
Very good! But if things turn out differently, what then?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Never mind! Take advantage of the right moment. No more is needed. For she cannot refrain, she must see people kneel to her.
The Marquis In Pink.
Famous! Brilliant! A splendid plan! (_To_ The Painter, _with a low bow which all imitate_.) Honoured sir, permit us to greet you!
The Painter (_very politely_).
My greeting implies the esteem of which you are aware.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
We lay our esteem at your feet! (_After further bows, which_ The Painter _good-humouredly returns_, The Marquises _depart at the centre_.)
(The Painter _smiling, continues to paint_.)
_THIRD SCENE_.
THE PAINTER. THE VALET DE CHAMBRE. _Then_ THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR. THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR. THE QUEEN.
(The Valet _entering from the left, greets_ The Painter _with condescending nods, and walks over to the throne_.)
The Painter.
Eh!--what?... Ah, indeed! (_Laughs aloud_.) Strange world, where the lackey carries his head the highest!
(Valet _after arranging the cushions, places himself before the easel, and ogles the portrait_.)
The Painter.
What is it?
The Valet.
(_Pleasantly, as a connoisseur_.) Ah these little furrows in the cheeks! (_Benevolently_.) It can"t be expected, sir, of you that your brush should do justice to every fine point. Yet--aside from that--the likeness is good.
The Painter (_laughing heartily_).
Indeed?
The Valet.
(_Opening the door on the left, announces_.) Her Majesty!
The Painter.
I scent trouble in this, and a voice says to me flee! I have already committed many a folly, but I never loved a queen! Take heed to yourself!
(The Two Maids of Honour _have entered during this soliloquy, and have taken their positions to the right and left of the door_.)
The Queen.
(_Nods cordially to_ The Painter, _and takes her seat on the throne, as before_.) My dear Jean, I must dispense with you now. Don"t stay too late.
(_Exit Jean_.)
_FOURTH SCENE_.
THE QUEEN. THE PAINTER. THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR (_who seats herself behind the screen_). THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR (_who falls asleep directly on a chair near the door on the left_).
The Queen.
Well, master, tell me: what is Genius doing?
The Painter.
Oh, your Majesty, he is pursuing Beauty.
The Queen.
Yet since Beauty lingers no more on earth, your genius will soon grow weary.
The Painter.
How so? Does your Majesty think it roams in the sky? It lingers just at the goal and cries: Oh behold! and what thou beholdest, that give to eternity!
The Queen.
I did not know, my dear master, that you were so ready with your compliments. Very well! As a man of many travels and of great reputation, you tread continually on the scorn of men; and since we are here chatting in confidence, take heart and tell me without reserve, tell me quite frankly: am I really beautiful?
The Painter.
If I were to speak as a man, every word would be presumptuous. Yet you ask the painter only. And he says that his hand is withered with anxiety lest on this canvas there will be found only a pale blotted vapour seen by a blind man.
The Queen.
There spoke the painter. But what says the man?
The Painter.