To make a good salad is to be a brilliant diplomatist—the problem is so entirely the same in both cases. To know exactly how much oil one must put with one's vinegar.

Baron Raff. A cook and a diplomatist! an excellent parallel. If I had a son who was a fool I'd make him one or the other.

Prince Paul. I see your father did not hold the same opinion, Baron. But, believe me, you are wrong to run down cookery. For myself, the only immortality I desire is to invent a new sauce. I have never had time enough to think seriously about it, but I feel it is in me, I feel it is in me.

Czare. You have certainly missed your metier, Prince Paul; the cordon bleu would have suited you much better than the Grand Cross of Honour. But you know you could never have worn your white apron well; you would have soiled it too soon, your hands are not clean enough.

Prince Paul (bowing). Que voulez vous? I manage your father's business.

Czare. (bitterly). You mismanage my father's business, you mean! Evil genius of his life that you are! before you came there was some love left in him. It is you who have embittered his nature, poured into his ear the poison of treacherous counsel, made him hated by the whole people, made him what he is—a tyrant!

(The courtiers look significantly at each other.)

Prince Paul (calmly). I see your Highness does want change of air. But I have been an eldest son myself. (Lights a cigarette.) I know what it is when a father won't die to please one.

(The Czarevitch goes to the top of the stage, and leans against the window, looking out.)

Prince Petro. (to Baron Raff). Foolish boy! He will be sent into exile, or worse, if he is not careful.

Baron Raff. Yes. What a mistake it is to be sincere!

Prince Petro. The only folly you have never committed, Baron.

Baron Raff. One has only one head, you know, Prince.

Prince Paul. My dear Baron, your head is the last thing any one would wish to take from you. (Pulls out snuffbox and offers it to Prince Petrovitch.)

Prince Petro. Thanks, Prince! Thanks!

Prince Paul. Very delicate, isn't it? I get it direct from Paris. But under this vulgar Republic everything has degenerated over there. "Cotelettes à l'impériale" vanished, of course, with the Bourbon, and omelettes went out with the Orleanists. La belle France is entirely ruined, Prince, through bad morals and worse cookery. (Enter the Marquis de Poivrard.) Ah! Marquis. I trust Madame la Marquise is well.

Marquis de P. You ought to know better than I do, Prince Paul; you see more of her.

Prince Paul (bowing). Perhaps I see more in her, Marquis. Your wife is really a charming woman, so full of esprit, and so satirical too; she talks continually of you when we are together.

Prince Petro. (looking at the clock). His Majesty is a little late to-day, is he not?

Prince Paul. What has happened to you, my dear Petrovitch? you seem quite out of sorts. You haven't quarrelled with your cook, I hope? What a tragedy that would be for you; you would lose all your friends.

Prince Petro. I fear I wouldn't be so fortunate as that. You forget I would still have my purse. But you are wrong for once; my chef and I are on excellent terms.

Prince Paul. Then your creditors or Mademoiselle Vera Sabouroff have been writing to you? I find both of them such excellent correspondents. But really you needn't be alarmed. I find the most violent proclamations from the Executive Committee, as they call it, left all over my house. I never read them; they are so badly spelt as a rule.

Prince Petro. Wrong again, Prince; the Nihilists leave me alone for some reason or other.

Prince Paul (aside).