Clown sprung up into the air, he was so diverted: his melancholy was now gone. And yet she had spoken the truth: he did love her—loved her like the sublime and great in art.
On her wedding-day he was more amusing than ever. At night he wept: had the public seen his distressed countenance then, they would have applauded him!
A few days ago Columbine died. On the day of her funeral Harlequin’s appearance was excused on the stage, for he really was a mourning husband. The manager, however, was obliged to give something more merry than common, in order that the public should not miss too much the lovely Columbine and the light-bodied Harlequin, and for this reason it behoved the Clown to be doubly entertaining. He danced and sprung aloft with despair at his heart, and the public clapped their hands and shouted—“Bravo, bravissimo!” The clown was called for when the performance was over. Oh, he was invaluable!
This evening, after the play, the poor little man walked out from the city to the solitary churchyard. The garland of flowers
