[_He takes the things he mentions, which are on a console between the doors on the right._] A tinder box--a busby of the Guard-- An ancient musket--No! it isn't loaded! And above all-- THE ARCHDUCHESS. Oh, hush! THE DUKE. That other thing-- I've hidden it. THE ARCHDUCHESS. Where, you bandit? THE DUKE. In my den. THE ARCHDUCHESS. Well, promise then--your grandfather--you know His kindness-- THE DUKE. [_Picking up a paper which has fallen from the herbarium._] What is this? A sheet of paper? [_He reads._] "And if the students still persist in shouting. Let them be crimped and sent on active service--". [_To the_ ARCHDUCHESS.] You said--his kindness-- THE ARCHDUCHESS. Yes; the Emperor loves you. His goodness-- THE DUKE. [_Picking up another paper fallen from the herbarium._] Here's another. [_He reads._] "As the mob Resist you, cut them down." [_To the_ ARCHDUCHESS.] His goodness-- THE ARCHDUCHESS. He hates the ferment of the modern mind, But he's an excellent old man. THE DUKE. Two-sided. Flowers from whose leaves death-sentences are shed, Good Emperor Franz is like these specimens. [_He closes the herbarium._] However, he's beloved, he's popular, I love him well. THE ARCHDUCHESS. How he could help your cause! THE DUKE. Ah! if he would! THE ARCHDUCHESS. Promise you'll never fly Until you've tried your utmost with him. THE DUKE. Yes, I promise that. THE ARCHDUCHESS. And I'll reward you now. THE DUKE. You? THE ARCHDUCHESS. Oh, one has one's little influence! The astounding Prokesch they deprived you of-- I said and did so much--in short, he's here. [_She strikes the ground with her parasol. The door opens and_ PROKESCH _enters. The_ DUKE _rushes to him. The_ ARCHDUCHESS _goes out quickly._] THE DUKE. At last! PROKESCH. They may be listening. THE DUKE. Oh, they are! They never tell, though. PROKESCH. What? THE DUKE. I've tested them. Uttered the most seditious sentiments; They've never been repeated. Never. PROKESCH. Strange! THE DUKE. I think the listener, paid by the police, Pockets the cash and stops his friendly ears. PROKESCH. The Countess Camerata? Any news? THE DUKE. Nothing. PROKESCH. Oh! THE DUKE. Nothing. She's forgotten me; Or else she's been discovered--or, perhaps-- What folly not to have fled last year! And yet 'Twas better; now I'm readier, but--forgotten. PROKESCH. Oh, hush! Your work-room? Charming. THE DUKE.