RAGUENEAU, PASTRY-COOKS, then LISE, RAGUENEAU is writing, with an inspired air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers.

[He passes on farther.]

[He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.]

[She puts a pile of papers on the counter.]

FIRST PASTRY-COOK:

[bringing in an elaborate fancy dish] Fruits in nougat!

SECOND PASTRY-COOK:

[bringing another dish] Custard!

THIRD PASTRY-COOK:

[bringing a roast, decorated with feathers] Peacock!

FOURTH PASTRY-COOK:

[bringing a batch of cakes on a slab] Cakes!

FIFTH PASTRY-COOK:

[bringing a sort of pie-dish] Beef casserole!

RAGUENEAU:

[stopping his writing and raising his head] The silver rays of the dawn begin to glint even now on the copper pans! Stifle the God of Song in your breast, Ragueneau! Soon the hour of the lute will come. But now, ’tis the hour of the oven! [He rises, and speaks to one of the cooks.] Improve that sauce—it's short of something!

COOK:

How much too short?

RAGUENEAU:

About three feet.

COOK:

What on earth is he talking about?

FIRST COOK:

[showing a dish to RAGUENEAU] The tart!

SECOND COOK:

The pie!

RAGUENEAU:

[before the fire] Retire, my muse, lest thy bright eyes be burned by the fire's blaze! to a COOK, showing him some loaves of bread] You have split these loaves in the wrong place. Don't you know that the pause always occurs at the center of the line? [to ANOTHER, showing him an unfinished pastry] Build a roof for this palace of crust! to a young APPRENTICE, who is seated on the ground placing poultry on a spit] On your spit, my son, you must alternate the modest chicken and the superb turkey, just as old Malherbe alternated his long lines of verse with short ones. Just as a couplet should be well-turned, so should a roast!

ANOTHER APPRENTICE:

[coming up with a tray covered by a napkin] Master, I thought of your tastes and made this. I hope it pleases you.

RAGUENEAU:

[enchanted] A lyre!

APPRENTICE:

’Tis of pastry dough.

RAGUENEAU:

[touched] With candied fruits!

APPRENTICE:

And I made the strings out of sugar.

RAGUENEAU:

[giving him a coin] Go, and drink to my health! seeing LISE enter] Shhh! My wife! Go now, and hide that money! [to LISE, showing her the lyre, with a self-conscious look] Isn't it beautiful?

LISE:

It's ridiculous!

RAGUENEAU:

Bags? Good! We need them! [He looks at them.] Heavens! My cherished pages! The poems of my friends! Torn apart to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes! You've desecrated great poetry, just as the Bacchantes tore apart Orpheus!

LISE:

[dryly] And am I not free to put to some use the only things that your wretched scribblers leave behind them by way of payment?

RAGUENEAU:

Groveling ant! Don't insult the divine grasshoppers!

LISE:

You never called your wife an ant—much less Bacchantes—until you started keeping company with that bunch!

RAGUENEAU:

Oh, to turn my poetic words to such use!

LISE:

That's all your poetry is good for!

RAGUENEAU:

I hate to think of what you would do to prose, then!