The Painter. Pardon me, your Majesty, the daylight is scanty, and besides--I am painting. The Queen. Look at him! A ray of light is of more value to him than all the foolish, gaudy songs of love. Is it not true? See, his very silence and bow betoken decided resistance. The Painter. Madam, forgive me if my words and bearing were an occasion and reason for misunderstanding. I speak now, because you call on me to speak. Every ray of light is a ray of love, and if its portrayer were to shut it out, I should like to know what would remain of this poor art which derives its sublimest power from the sources of desire. If our heart does not tremble in our hand, if into the flood of forms which stream from it, no flash of inner lightning shines, how shall we express in these colours life's image, the storm of the passions, the shy play of slight feeling, the desperate vacillation of exhausted hope, and all the rest of our inner life? In these seven blotched colours (_points to the palette_) where the whole wide universe is portrayed, where if our senses are starving for truth, is phantasy to look for food and deliverance? Yet if we have to speak with wisdom, elegantly and cleverly, then the mysterious volition is silent and the promised land recedes far away from us. Therefore, madam, leave me what belongs to us who are poor, the sacred right to create and to be silent. The Queen. You call yourself poor and yet you are rich. You might be equal to the rulers of this earth. Yet what avails the kingdom of your vision? The splendid gift of confidence is wanting to you. The Painter. How, your Majesty? The Queen. Like a Harpagon, you guard the treasures of your soul, lest any of your feelings should be stolen. No one risks it--Jean, give me my smelling-bottle. The Marquis in Pale Blue. She inflames him. The Marquis In Pink. On the contrary, she cools him off. The Marquis in Pale Blue. Just to inflame him anew. The Marquis In Pink. I wonder if she truly loves him? The Marquis in Pale Blue. At any rate, she wishes to excite him. The Queen. There, Jean, _merci_.... Yet what was I about to say, has no one seen anything of our Marshal? The Marquis in Pink (_softly_). Is he still missing? The Marquis in Pale Blue. Why does she want _him_, too? The Queen. I really believe the good Marshal is offended. It is three days since I spoke to him graciously at the state reception.... That seems long to me. The Painter (_turning to_ The Queen). Is the Marshal back? The Marshal here?