tone:

"Gods of the firmament! Do I dream or am I awake? But surely that is
Pinocchio!"

"It is indeed Pinocchio!" cried Punch.

"It is indeed himself!" screamed Miss Rose, peeping from behind the
scenes.

"It is Pinocchio! it is Pinocchio!" shouted all the puppets in chorus,
leaping from all sides on to the stage. "It is Pinocchio! It is our
brother Pinocchio! Long live Pinocchio!"

"Pinocchio, come up here to me," cried Harlequin, "and throw yourself
into the arms of your wooden brothers!"

At this affectionate invitation Pinocchio made a leap from the end of
the pit into the reserved seats; another leap landed him on the head of
the leader of the orchestra, and he then sprang upon the stage.

The embraces, the friendly pinches, and the demonstrations of warm
brotherly affection that Pinocchio received from the excited crowd of
actors and actresses of the puppet dramatic company are beyond
description.

The sight was doubtless a moving one, but the public in the pit, finding
that the play was stopped, became impatient and began to shout: "We will
have the play--go on with the play!"

It was all breath thrown away. The puppets, instead of continuing the
recital, redoubled their noise and outcries, and, putting Pinocchio on
their shoulders, they carried him in triumph before the footlights.

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 them. He carried a large 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 hobgoblin suffering from a
severe cold in the head.

"Believe me, honored sir, it was not my fault!"

"That is enough! Tonight 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