Pierrot: You know very well how, of whom, and why I’m jealous.
Harlequin: Be sensible. If you love me and love Columbine, you ought to be happy for both our sakes. Besides, you know we both love you. So what is there to be sad about? Lay a third place.
Pierrot: No, I’m not so simple. Nice people don’t behave like that, and there’s nothing else left for me than to revenge myself on you.
Harlequin: In what way?
Pierrot: By death.
Harlequin: But it’ll come soon anyhow—my hours are numbered. Who will prevent you afterwards from telling everybody that it was the work of your hands?
Pierrot: Suppose
Harlequin: Come, what is there to talk about! Lay a third place.
Pierrot (considering): Yes, but
Harlequin: Come, come. Time’s precious. (Pierrot fetches the plates and drops them.) Butterfingers! You were bound to smash ’em.
Pierrot (pathetically) : It’s not for you to reproach me! You’ve destroyed my happiness.
