ajesty.

POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this.

CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once.

VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough.

POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really,
Violetta--

VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's
consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is
inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know?
Let us think of something really cruel--really fiendish. I have
it--deprive him of social position for the rest of his life--force
him to remain a mere knave, forever.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it,
Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly crime?

KNAVE. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any kind.
There is something in my nature that demands tarts--something in
my constitution that cries out for them--and I obey my
constitution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his.
I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odor
floated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, light
brown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts
fit for the gods--- that I could stand it no longer. It was
stronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances
for future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the
window. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating
it, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. After
having eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts has
disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tart
before me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection.

POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteen
strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, we
await your decision!

(_The_ COOKS _bow as before; then each selects a tart from the
tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. An
expression of absolute ecstasy and beatitude comes over their
faces. They clasp hands, then fall on each other's necks,
weeping._)

POMPDEBILE (_impatiently_). What on earth is the matter?

YELLOW HOSE. Excuse our emotion. It is because we have at last
encountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, of
our art.

(_They bow to_ VIOLETTA.)

POMPDEBILE. They are good, then?

BLUE HOSE (_his