A hatred? No, what I laughingly veiled from you was not hatred, no--yet _if_ I hate, I hate myself, because, dazzled with splendour, like a drowning man I grasp at the little words which you mockingly deal out to me; because, after the manner of a venal courtier, I quite forgot the pride of the man, and by your favour ate sweetmeats greedily from these hands! Yes, just show them--the white fairy[3] hands laden with the splendid tokens of love: yet stop--think of the end, by the holy God--I recognise myself no more. The Queen. Never yet did I hear such words. The Painter. When did you ever bow yourself to force? When did passion build you a throne on the ruins of the universe, the only throne to win which is more than an idle pastime, on which in splendid grandeur, instead of all the queens, sits Woman! And if a drone playing in colours ever indeed won a smile from you, take from me but your crown, for I, oh Queen, am--a man! The Queen. (_Shrinking back to the throne_.) Enough, I should not listen to you any longer. The Painter. You must. You have so willed it. The Queen. I will beg you, sir, I will conjure you. The Painter. Too late. You offered me love's pay as you would throw a gold piece into the cap of a beggar crouching in the street, and if I, thrilled now by hot desire, employ the only moment of life which commits you into my hands, I will not have you play with me any longer. I will, and you--you--must--before this throne our alliance is ratified. Take away the hand. That, others may kiss, but I, Queen, will have the mouth. I will---- _FIFTH SCENE_. THE SAME. THE MARSHAL. The Queen. (_Who until now has listened, anxious but not altogether unfriendly, collects herself, and draws herself up in sudden anger_.) I deliver this insolent fellow to you, Marshal. Deal with him as he deserves. (_She goes to the door. There she stops, and gives_ The Sleepy Maid of Honour _two angry little blows with her fan. The latter springs up, bows, and goes out gravely behind_ The Queen, _with_ The Deaf Maid of Honour, _who has risen_.) _SIXTH SCENE_. THE MARSHAL. THE PAINTER. The Marshal. Sir, if you wish to say a paternoster, make haste with it. The Painter. Your magnanimity affects me deeply, Marshal. But my soul carries light baggage. Even so, it will journey to heaven. And instead of a last testament, I present this portrait to you, so that, in the confusion, no serious danger may happen to it. The Marshal. By your will, it has become mine, and I will gladly keep it. So, draw your sword!