(The Painter _paints, without noticing the others, then takes a
buttered roll from his pocket and eats_.)
The Marquis In Pink.
Ha, now I am going to kill him!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Don't you know it is forbidden? The punishment would be severe. They
say, too, that he wields a keen blade, and before you know it you are
dead as a mouse.
The Marquis In Pink.
I am surprised at that. Yet whether we love or hate him, one thing is
as clear to me as day: he must not be allowed to quit this palace
alive.
Another Marquis.
Pardon me, Marquis, why not?
The Marquis In Pink.
You don't see deeply into this, Marquis. It seems almost as if you were
a simpleton. Has she not mocked us, and exclaimed at our cooing,
rustling, sweet speaking, and whimpering? Yet she delights to have him
paint her; and as a reward, she loves him.
The Second Marquis.
Ha, terrible!
The Third Marquis.
Who told you that?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Have pity on us, friend, and give us proofs!
The Marquis In Pink.
Well, his Majesty (_all bow_) is, alas, well on in years! (_All assent
sorrowfully_.) Whom else does she love? There must at any rate be some
one!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
For God's sake, be prudent and speak softly!
The Marquis In Pink.
What is he doing there?
The Second Marquis.
He is eating.
The Marquis In Pink.
Fie, how vulgar!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
What will happen to the Marshal?
The Marquis In Pink.
That seems to me doubtful. Sometimes she is pleasant with him,
sometimes ill-humoured. I have tried to get rid of him, but he still
stays by me. He causes me the pangs of jealousy. She must love one of
us. We are here for that purpose. Yet inasmuch as this wandering fellow
has stolen her heart, he must die--and that on the spot.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Patience, Marquis, patience! Of all the means of shaking off this
insolent fellow, there is one which is really exquisite. Without
breaking the laws, if we set the Marshal on him, instead of being
disturbers of the peace, we shall escape scot-free. He dies, of course,
and it would be a wonder--yet what am I saying?--He is already as good
as a dead sparrow.
(_All chuckle_.)
The Marquis In Pink.
Dead sparrow is excellent!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
This murder--listen--is bound to put the other one into disfavour. The
King's Majesty (_all bow_) will shorten his leave of absence, and we,
we shall be freed of him.
(_All chuckle_.)
The Painter.
What are they about? Alas, if they are glad, perhaps that means the
ruin of some man of honour. Perhaps they are meditating some ribaldry.
But in truth, what matters to me this vermin?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
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.
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 arsenic 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 noble 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.