Prince Petro. (to the Czarevitch). The Emperor was a good deal agitated about your late appearance at the ball last night, Prince.
[1]Count R. (laughing). I believe he thought the Nihilists had broken into the palace and carried you off.
Baron Raff. If they had you would have missed a charming dance.[1]
Prince Paul. And[2] an excellent supper. Gringoire really excelled himself in his salad. Ah! you may laugh, Baron; but to make a good salad is a much more difficult thing than cooking accounts. 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,[3] 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.)