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!