CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work? VIOLETTA. I don't understand what you mean by work, Chancellor. Oh, the tarts! (_Nervously_) They were quite simple--quite simple to make--no work at all--A little imagination is all one needs for such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you, Pompy, that imagination will work wonders--will do almost anything, in fact? I remember-- POMPDEBILE. The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven. VIOLETTA. Oh, _no_, Pompy! They are not finished or cooked, or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last five minutes is of the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them! _Please_-- POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If you wish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm in looking at them. Come, I will hold your hand. VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my hand. (_She scrambles up on the throne beside the_ KING.) CHANCELLOR (_in horror_). On the throne, Your Majesty? POMPDEBILE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that you are not yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while-- VIOLETTA (_coming down_). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, in this seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't _really_ be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying it so much. POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (_To the_ PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts. This suspense is unbearable! (_The_ KING'S _voice is husky with excitement. The two_ PASTRY COOKS, _after bowing with great ceremony to the_ KING, _to each other, to the_ CHANCELLOR--_for this is the most important moment of their lives by far--walk to the oven door and open it, impressively. They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again_). YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there! BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone! VIOLETTA (_clasping her hands_). Gone! Oh, where could they have gone? POMPDEBILB (_coming down from throne_). That is impossible. PASTRY COOKS (_greatly excited_). You see, you see, the oven is empty as a drum. POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room? VIOLETTA (_wailing_). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my nose before the mirror in the pantry. (_To_ PASTRY COOKS) When one cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I had thought for one little minute-- POMPDEBILE (_interrupting_). The tarts have been stolen! VIOLETTA (_with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair_). Stolen! Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that any one would take my delicious little, my dear little tarts. My salts. Oh! Oh! (PASTRY COOKS _run to the door and call._) YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts. BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted! (URSULA _enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle._) URSULA. Here, here--What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet mistress!