“That will do very well. That rosy sky is just about right now, and gives a very good idea of the brilliant cloud effects that we have here. But that is not a Spanish sky, is it?”
“Well, why not lay the scene in Sweden?”
“Oh dear me, no! Don’t you see that as we have arranged the play, particularly with that view of Stollborg that you have been painting, a certain comparison might be suggested—if you should give your imagination free play?”
“With the story of the Baroness de Waldemora?”
“Might there not? In reality there would be no sort of similarity, since she had no child. But there are persons who might suppose that we were representing the pretended captivity of the Gray Lady. No, Christian, lay the scene in Spain; it will do much better.”
“Spain be it, then! Well, the pastry-cook has a son, just born, who is to grow up into the illustrious Stentarello. Now, the cook of the chateau, who has sent to this pastry-cook by order of the baron—”
“The baron?”
“That is your fault, you put the baron into my head by talking of your possible comparisons. Our traitor must be called Don Diego, or Don Sancho.”
“With all my heart. Now, the baron’s cook—There! I am as bad as you!—Don Sancho’s, I mean—what did he send to the pastry-cook?”
“A magnificent pie in a basket, to be baked.”