Valet (quite reverent, with eyes cast down). Perhaps Mr. Gerardo used to be a tailor once.
Gerardo. What? A tailor, I? Not quite. Simpleton! (Handing the trousers to him.) There, put them back, but be quick about it.
Valet (bending down over the trunk). There's another batch of letters for you, Sir.
Gerardo (walking over to the left). Yes, I've seen them.
Valet. And flowers!
Gerardo. Yes, yes. (Takes the letters from the tray and throws himself into an armchair in front of the piano.) Now, for pity's sake, hurry up and get through. Valet disappears in adjoining room. Gerardo opens the letters, glances through them with a radiant smile, crumples them up and throws them under his chair. From one of them he reads as follows:) "... To belong to you who to me are a god! To make me infinitely happy for the rest of my life, how little that would cost you! Consider, please, ..." (To himself.) Great Heavens! Here I am to sing Tristan in Brussels tomorrow night and don't remember a single note!—Not a single note! (Looking at his watch.) Half-past three.—Forty-five minutes left. (A knock.) Come i—n!
Boy (lugging in a basket of champagne). I was told to put this in Mr....
Gerardo. Who told you?—Who is downstairs?
Boy. I was told to put this in Mr. Gerardo's room.
Gerardo (rising). What is it? (Relieves him of the basket.) Thank you. (Exit elevator boy. Gerardo lugs basket forward.) For mercy's sake! Now what am I to do with this! (Reads the name on the giver's card and calls out.) George!