Harlequin, ragged and patched in
every colour of the rainbow, with his leather girdle and sword of
lath, the upper half of his face smeared in soot, clashed a pair of
cymbals intermittently. Pasquariel, as an apothecary in skull-cap
and white apron, excited the hilarity of the onlookers by his
enormous tin clyster, which emitted when pumped a dolorous squeak.
Within the chaise itself, but showing themselves freely at the
windows, and exchanging quips with the townsfolk, sat the three
ladies of the company. Climene, the amoureuse, beautifully gowned
in flowered satin, her own clustering ringlets concealed under a
pumpkin-shaped wig, looked so much the lady of fashion that you
might have wondered what she was dong in that fantastic rabble.
Madame, as the mother, was also dressed with splendour, but
exaggerated to achieve the ridiculous. Her headdress was a
monstrous structure adorned with flowers, and superimposed by little
ostrich plumes. Columbine sat facing them, her back to the horses,
falsely demure, in milkmaid bonnet of white muslin, and a striped
gown of green and blue.
Pages:
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204