MARSHAL. You plunge a dagger in my heart! But why must he? Why should he marry her? Why he? Where is the necessity?     

       PRESIDENT. Because Ferdinand refuses her, and there is no other candidate.     

       MARSHAL. But is there no possible method of obtaining your son's consent? Let the measure be ever so extravagant or desperate—there is nothing to which I should not willingly consent in order to supplant the hated von Bock.     

       PRESIDENT. I know but one means of accomplishing this, and that rests       entirely with you.     

       MARSHAL. With me? Name it, my dear count, name it!     

       PRESIDENT. You must set Ferdinand and his mistress against each other.     

       MARSHAL. Against each other? How do you mean?—and how would that be possible.     

       PRESIDENT. Everything is ours could we make him suspect the girl.     

       MARSHAL. Ah, of theft, you mean?     

       PRESIDENT. Pshaw!—he would never believe that! No, no—I mean that she is carrying on an intrigue with another.     

       MARSHAL. And this other, who is he to be?     

       PRESIDENT. Yourself!     

       MARSHAL. How? Must I be her lover? Is she of noble birth?     

       PRESIDENT. What signifies that? What an idea!—she is the daughter of a musician.     

       MARSHAL. A plebeian?—that will never do!     

       PRESIDENT. What will never do? Nonsense, man! Who in the name of wonder would think of asking a pair of rosy cheeks for their owner's pedigree?     

       MARSHAL. But consider, my dear count, a married man! And my reputation at court!     

       PRESIDENT. Oh! that's quite another thing! I beg a thousand pardons, marshal; I 

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