At that moment out came the showman. He was very big and so ugly that
the sight of him was enough to frighten anyone. His beard was as black
as ink, and so long that it reached from his chin to the ground. I
need only say that he trod upon it when he walked. His mouth was as
big as an oven, and his eyes were like two lanterns of red glass with
lights burning inside of them. He carried a whip made of snakes and
foxes' tails twisted together, which he cracked constantly.
At his unexpected appearance there was a profound silence: no one
dared to breathe. A fly might have been heard in the stillness. The
poor puppets of both sexes trembled like so many leaves.
"Why have you come to raise a disturbance in my theater?" asked the
showman of Pinocchio in the gruff voice of a hob-goblin suffering from
a severe cold in the head.
"Believe me, honored sir, that it was not my fault!"
"That is enough! To-night we will settle our accounts."
As soon as the play was over the showman went into the kitchen where
a fine sheep, preparing for his supper, was turning slowly on the spit
in front of the fire. As there was not enough wood to finish roasting
and browning it, he called Harlequin and Punchinello, and said to
them:
"Bring that puppet here; you will find him hanging on a nail.
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