Act II, Scene i | Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise. Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired | | air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers. |
| 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): | | Rissoles! |
| FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish): | | Beef jelly! |
| RAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head): | | Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O | | Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall | | come the hour of the lute!—now 'tis the hour of the oven! | | (He rises. To a cook): | | You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short! |
| THE COOK: | | How much too short? |
| RAGUENEAU: | | Three feet. |
| THE COOK: | | What means he? |
| FIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau): | | The tart! |
| SECOND PASTRY-COOK: | | The pie! |
| RAGUENEAU (before the fire): | | My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze! | | (To a cook, showing him some loaves): | | You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that | | the coesura should be between the hemistiches? | | (To another, showing him an unfinished pasty): | | To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . . | | (To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls): | | And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb | | turkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate | | his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in | | strophes, turn before the flame! |
| ANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin): | | Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will | | please you, I hope. |
| (He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.) |
| RAGUENEAU (enchanted): | | A lyre! |
| THE APPRENTICE: | | 'Tis of brioche pastry. |
| RAGUENEAU (touched): | | With conserved fruits. |
| THE APPRENTICE: | | The strings, see, are of sugar. |
| RAGUENEAU (giving him a coin): | | Go, drink my health! | | (Seeing Lise enter): | | Hush! My wife. Bustle, pass on, and hide that money! | | (To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look): | | Is it not beautiful? |
| LISE: | | 'Tis passing silly! |
| (She puts a pile of papers on the counter.) |
| RAGUENEAU: | | Bags? Good. I thank you. | | (He looks at them): | | Heavens! my cherished leaves! The poems of my friends! Torn, dismembered, | | to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again. | | . .Orpheus and the Bacchantes! |
| LISE (dryly): | | And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your | | wretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment? |
| RAGUENEAU: | | Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers! |
| LISE: | | Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not | | call your wife ant and Bacchante! |
| RAGUENEAU: | | To turn fair verse to such a use! |
| LISE: | | 'Faith, 'tis all it's good for. |
| RAGUENEAU: | | Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose? |
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