A Merry Death
(Harlequin is sleeping. Pierrot clumsily chases the flies from his face, then turns to the Audience.)
Pierrot: Shhh! Quiet! Take your seats quietly and try to talk and turn in your seats less. Even if an ingenuous friend has dragged you in and yourselves are too serious to be interested in a harlequinade, it’s quite superfluous to hint of it to the public, which in the main has no affair with your personal tastes. Besides, Harlequin’s asleep—you see him! Shh! I’ll explain it all to you afterwards. But don’t wake him up, please! And when Columbine comes on, don’t applaud her like mad, just in order to show your neighbours that you know her, had a little intrigue with her, and can appreciate certain talents. I beg and entreat you! It’s no joke. Harlequin’s terribly ill! Just think, he’s been raving about my Columbine, although, of course, there’s nothing in common between him and my Columbine; there isn’t, because Columbine’s my wife, and there’s an end of it! I strongly suspect that
