PIERROT: As for the rest, I'll teach you how to cry, and how to die, And other little tricks; and the house will love you. You'll be a star by five o'clock . . . that is, If you will let me pay for your apartment.
COLUMBINE: Let you?—well, that's a good one! Ha! Ha! Ha! But why?
PIERROT: But why?—well, as to that, my dear, I cannot say. It's just a matter of form.
COLUMBINE: Pierrot, I'm getting tired of caviar And peacocks' livers. Isn't there something else That people eat?—some humble vegetable, That grows in the ground?
PIERROT: Well, there are mushrooms.
COLUMBINE: Mushrooms! That's so! I had forgotten . . . mushrooms . . . mushrooms. . . . I cannot live with . . . How do you like this gown?
PIERROT: Not much. I'm tired of gowns that have the waist-line About the waist, and the hem around the bottom,— And women with their breasts in front of them!— Zut and ehe! Where does one go from here!
COLUMBINE: Here's a persimmon, love. You always liked them.
PIERROT: I am become a critic; there is nothing I can enjoy. . . . However, set it aside; I'll eat it between meals.
COLUMBINE: Pierrot, do you know, Sometimes I think you're making fun of me.