And you, too, stretch out, friend Pierrot, if only you can. (Pierrot, in reply, sobs. Harlequin laughs.) No, no, not like that; you don’t understand me.
Pierrot: The lamp’s flickering.
Harlequin: And there’s no oil in the house.
Columbine: But look, it’s still burning!
Harlequin: It’s burning, Columbine, burning! (Begins to play. The strings break.)
Columbine (sorrowfully): The strings have broken.
Harlequin (laughs): My catch is sung. (A knock.) Who’s there? (Death enters. Harlequin rises to meet her. He is very gallant.) To do justice, madame, you have come just in time. We were only just talking about you. Really, how obliging you are, not to keep yourself waiting! But why these tragic gestures? Look round, madame; you are in the house of Harlequin, where one can laugh at all that’s tragic, not even excluding your gestures. (Death points at the clock with a theatrical gesture.) Enough, enough, madame. Really, if I hadn’t laughed all my laughter, I should burst of laughing in the literal sense of the word. What, you want to stop the clock? There’s plenty of time, madame. As far as I know, my hour has
