The adventures of Harlequin

By Francis Bickley

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Title: The adventures of Harlequin

Author: Francis Bickley

Illustrator: John Austen

Release date: November 2, 2025 [eBook #77170]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Selwyn & Blount Ltd, 1923

Credits: deaurider and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


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[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE ADVENTURES OF HARLEQUIN

BY

FRANCIS BICKLEY

WITH DECORATIONS BY

JOHN AUSTEN

[Illustration]

1923
SELWYN & BLOUNT LTD
YORK BLDS ADELPHI LONDON




_The Whitefriars Press Ltd., London and Tonbridge.
Made and Printed in Great Britain._




[Illustration:]




_Contents_


  _How Harlequin Came to be Born_                     11

  _Why Harlequin Ran Away from Home_                  15

  _Harlequin Meets Scaramouche_                       20

  _At Burattino’s Inn_                                25

  _The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment_                 33

  _How Harlequin First Saw Columbine_                 40

  _Harlequin Visits the Doctor_                       44

  _Violetta Sets her Wits to Work_                    49

  _Violetta Plots and Columbine Wonders_              54

  _Harlequin’s Opportunity_                           63

  _Pierrot Sings to Columbine_                        69

  _Captain Spavente Makes Mischief_                   75

  _Columbine’s Punishment and Harlequin’s New Plan_   80

  _How Harlequin took Service with Lelio_             87

  _Harlequin Sees Columbine Once More_                92

  _Pantaloon’s Dinner Party_                          99

  _Concerning Lelio and Pantaloon_                   106

  _The Married Life of Harlequin and Columbine_      115




[Illustration]




[Illustration]




_How Harlequin Came to be Born_


At Bergamo, between the Alps and the Lombard Plain, there was once
a fruit-seller. He was a prosperous man, for all the nobility and
gentry of the town bought their fruit from him; and he was a portly,
comfortable man, rosy as one of his own ripe apples. This, some folk
said, was because he had never married.

But one day he noticed a girl, a mere slip of a girl, but very pretty,
with black hair and laughing black eyes, who stood looking at the fruit
in his shop.

“What would you like, miss?” he asked.

“Nothing, thank you, sir,” said the girl. “I only want to look. They
are so lovely.”

“Oh! very well,” said the fruit-seller. “There is no charge for
looking.”

Presently the girl went away, with what sounded like a little sigh of
regret.

Next day she came again, and the fruit-seller, who had a kind heart and
thought that perhaps the girl was too poor to buy anything, gave her an
orange and an apple. But instead of eating them, she carried them away
with her, holding one in each hand and gazing at them lovingly.

That night the fruit-seller could not sleep for thinking of the girl.
Nor could he the next.

“This is nonsense,” he said; but still he lay awake.

“I wonder what is the matter with me?” he said.

For answer there appeared against the darkness a vision of the girl’s
pretty little face, with its great black eyes and lips like the most
delicious sort of cherries.

The fruit-seller did not believe in wasting time.

“You seem to be very fond of fruit,” he said, when the girl arrived as
usual on the following morning.

“I am,” she answered. “I love them better than anything in the world.”

“But only to look at? Don’t you ever eat them?”

“No,” she said. “They are too beautiful.”

“Then what do you live on?”

“Honey, mostly,” said the girl.

“I am not surprised to hear it,” said the fruit-seller gallantly.

“I like ortolans, too,” said the girl.

“Oh!” said the fruit-seller. Ortolans were very expensive.

But the girl was very pretty indeed; and if ortolans cost money, the
fruit-seller had money and to spare.

“How would you like all these fruit for your very own?” he asked.

Now it was the girl’s turn to say “Oh!” Her eyes grew bigger than ever.

“I mean,” the fruit-seller went on, “how would you like to come and
look after this shop? In short, and not to beat about the bush, how
would you like to marry me?”

“I should like it very much indeed,” said the girl, who was a simple
soul and always said just what she meant.

[Illustration]

So married they were; and neither of them regretted it. The
fruit-seller, whom his neighbours had regarded as a confirmed old
bachelor, proved to be the most devoted of husbands, and gave his
wife as many ortolans as she could possibly eat; while she was the
merriest and most charming of wives imaginable. She was always laughing
and dancing--especially dancing. One of the first things which the
fruit-seller had noticed about her was how lightly she walked, and now
that she was happy she hardly walked at all--she flitted.

All the same, she was very useful in the shop. The fruit-seller had
been used to set out his fruit anyhow, often leaving them in the ugly,
battered baskets in which he had bought them. But his wife changed
all that. She had notions of her own about window-dressing, and her
husband, though he could not see that the way the fruit were arranged
made any difference to their taste, let her do what she would. So she
devised wonderful contrasts of golden orange and purple grape, and
piled the apples into glowing pyramids. The shop became one of the
sights of Bergamo, and people came from far and near to see it. The
fruit-seller’s business doubled, and he had to admit that his wife was
not only a very delightful companion, but a very good business woman to
boot.

In due course a son was born to this happy couple. He had his mother’s
eyes; laughed instead of crying when he was born; and hardly ever
stopped laughing afterwards. He danced before he could walk, though
it would not be very easy to describe how he did it. He was called
Harlequin.

The fruit-seller was immensely proud of this son of his, and his mother
worshipped him.

“When he is old enough,” she said, “I shall make him a suit of all the
colours of the fruit in the shop. For if it had not been for the fruit
there would have been no Harlequin.”

So when the time came for Harlequin to be breeched, she made him a
wonderful suit of diamond-shaped pieces of cloth, red and purple, green
and orange; and Harlequin was the smartest little boy in Bergamo.




[Illustration]




_Why Harlequin Ran Away from Home_


Harlequin was a very imp of mischief. Whatever naughtiness was afoot,
he must take his part in it, and he soon became the ringleader among
boys who were, many of them, twice his age and size. He showed a
diabolical ingenuity in devising tricks to play upon the good folk of
Bergamo. Incredibly active and fleet of foot, no policeman could hope
to catch him, and no bird’s nest was safe from him: he went up church
towers like a steeplejack. In his coloured suit he pirouetted joyfully
about the town like a bright butterfly, working havoc wherever he went.

His mother laughed at his doings, and even his father, though he
scolded him, could not at first help rather admiring him for them.
“I was just such a young rascal at his age,” he would say; though it
was difficult to believe that the stout fruit-seller had ever looked
anything like his quicksilver son.

But when the boy’s devilries began to affect his trade, he took a more
serious view of the matter. Harlequin liked nothing better than to sit
in the window above the shop and pelt the customers with cherry-stones
or even rotten oranges. Naturally the customers were annoyed, and some
of them began to buy their fruit at the new shop over the way.

This made the fruit-seller very angry, and he decided that he must
teach his son a lesson. So he went to the carpenter’s and bought
a lath, or wand, of white wood, long and thin and flexible. And
Harlequin, dancing into the shop, whistling and gay as usual,
unexpectedly received his first thrashing.

His mother cried; which surprised Harlequin. It was not she who was
being whipped. That himself should cry, which he did most lustily, was
no wonder; for his father’s arm was strong, and those pretty clothes of
his fitted him very tightly.

Still, he did not mend his ways. He lived for fun; and the fun which
he got out of life was, he decided, well worth an occasional whipping.
And, in spite of his mother’s tears, he was whipped pretty often.

As Harlequin grew older he discovered new kinds of mischief. By the
time he was fifteen he was well known in all the taverns of Bergamo. He
diced and played cards, kissed the girls, and was, altogether, as wild
a youth as could be found in Lombardy.

“The gallows will be the end of him,” said his father.

“Oh, don’t say so!” cried his mother.

“Well, it is not my fault, my dear,” her husband replied. “I am sure
I have done my best to bring him up properly, and I was always sober
enough myself. I can’t imagine where he gets his wicked ways from.”

And the fruit-seller looked severely at his wife, for he could not
help thinking that her merry disposition--and she was still as merry
as ever when she was not worrying about Harlequin--was in some degree
responsible for their son’s levity.

“Of one thing I am quite certain,” the fruit-seller concluded, “and
that is that he will never be any use to me in the shop. Heaven only
knows what is to become of him.”

His wife sighed. What was to become of her precious, scapegrace
Harlequin? It certainly was a problem.

Harlequin himself solved the problem for them, quite suddenly.

[Illustration]

One day there was a procession in Bergamo, a very magnificent affair.
All the dignitaries of the town took part in it: among them the
fruit-seller, who was now a person of great importance--and looked it,
as he rode proudly on his white horse, in his fur-trimmed cloak of
black velvet, with his gold chain about his shoulders.

[Illustration]

The cavalcade was approaching the cathedral, and everything seemed to
be going as it should. But suddenly there was a flash and a bang; then
another; then a regular fusillade. For a moment people thought that
some enemy, the French perhaps, had taken advantage of the holiday to
make an attack on the town. The horses reared, threw their riders,
and dashed into the crowd. Women screamed, men shouted, and all was
confusion.

Harlequin flung his last cracker into an old woman’s market basket,
paused a moment to laugh as she scuttled away as though the devil
himself were after her, and then slipped up a deserted side street.

He was pleased with the success of his plot, but he was not sure that
it had not been too successful. Of course, every one would guess who
had been the author of it, and, if any one were seriously hurt, he
would certainly be called to account. For the first time in his life he
felt frightened.

“I very much doubt whether the air of Bergamo will be good for my
health for some time to come,” he said to himself as he hurried back
to the shop, which he knew he would find empty; for his mother was in
a window in the great square, watching the procession. He filled his
pockets with fruit and with the contents of the till. Also he took that
long, flexible wand, of the virtue of which, as a weapon of attack, he
had had such painful experience. He could not help shivering as he made
it whistle through the air.

Until nightfall he hid in an empty stable on the outskirts of the town,
where he and his friends had often gone to play their devilries. As
soon as it was dark enough he took the road.




[Illustration:]




_Harlequin Meets Scaramouche_


Harlequin walked on through the darkness. The cool night breeze made
him feel very cheerful. He whistled and skipped, and every now and
then turned a somersault. Presently the moon rose, and it seemed to
Harlequin that she was smiling at him. He took this for a good omen,
for he knew that the moon could exercise what influence she would upon
the lives of men, and it was by no means improbable that he might need
a friend ere long. He bowed to her respectfully, and then, since he was
not at all respectful by nature, blew her an airy kiss.

“She can take which greeting she prefers,” he said to himself.

The moon winked, and Harlequin, judging her by the girls he had known
in Bergamo, guessed that it was his second salutation which she liked
best.

He was not really very much worried by the idea of pursuit. In the
first place, it was quite likely that the Bergamese, including his
father, would be too glad to think that they had seen the last of him
to try to get him back again, even for the pleasure of hanging him. In
the second, he knew that he could show any pursuer, afoot or mounted, a
clean pair of heels. He threw up his heels at the very idea and turned
another somersault.

About dawn, he was set upon by a couple of footpads. But they were
heavy country fellows, and they could not even touch the agile
Harlequin, who flew round and round them like a ring of flame. He had
only his light wand against their bludgeons, but he made it whirl and
flash so in the dawning light that they thought it was a sword of the
finest steel. He flicked one man on the cheek, who ran away screaming
that he was dead. The other he caught across the ankles, and the fellow
fell on his hands and knees and crawled off as fast as he could. So
sure was he that both his feet were gone that he did not try to get up
until he had crawled for more than a mile.

He must have looked very silly when he discovered his mistake, but
Harlequin was not there to see him. He had gone on his own way,
extremely pleased with his exploit, munching one of his father’s apples
and whistling a merry tune whenever his mouth was empty enough.

At the first town he came to he bought a black mask.

“Just in case my father should catch me up,” he said. “Besides, there
are lots of situations in which a mask is useful; and if I don’t sooner
or later find myself in one of them my name is not Harlequin.”

Having eaten a sausage and drunk a flagon of wine, he set out once more
on his journey. Nor had he gone very far before he heard, coming from
round a bend of the road ahead of him, the sound of such infectious
music that his feet were fairly caught up into the tune, so that when
he came into sight of the player he was waltzing and pirouetting like a
goat stung by a tarantula.

The player, who was sitting by the roadside, laid down his instrument,
which was a mandoline hung with gay ribbons, and stared at Harlequin.
He was a round-faced, roguish-looking fellow, dressed all in black,
except for a white frill round his neck, and wearing a black cap
rakishly on one side.

“Who in the name of Bacchus may you be?” he asked.

Harlequin was too out of breath to think of a lie, so he told the truth.

“You swear by a very admirable god,” he added.

“None better,” the other replied.

“And now--name for name, sir,” cried Harlequin.

“That is but fair,” said the musician, rising to his feet, and making a
ceremonious bow. “I am Scaramouche, at your service. You may have heard
of me.”

“I am afraid not,” said Harlequin.

“Indeed?” said Scaramouche, looking surprised. “Where, if I may ask, do
you hail from?”

“From Bergamo.”

“Ah!” said Scaramouche contemptuously; “a poor, inconsiderable town,
where art has never been cherished. You may have noticed,” he went on,
“that I am something of a performer on the mandoline.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Harlequin. “Such playing I never heard before.”

Scaramouche smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. “I see that, although a Bergamese, you are a
person of unusual discernment. But I can very honestly return your
compliment. In all my wanderings, and I have visited the most famous
cities of Italy, I have never met a dancer who was your equal.”

“Really?” said Harlequin, delighted.

“Never one who could hold a candle to you,” cried Scaramouche. “We are
a pair well met. Together, we should conquer the world.”

“I should like that,” said Harlequin.

“Then listen to me,” said Scaramouche. “But, by the way, you have not
told me whither you are journeying.”

“Nowhere in particular,” Harlequin replied. “I go where adventure
calls.”

“Then you could not travel in better company than mine,” laughed
Scaramouche. “For, by Bacchus!--whom we must duly honour at the
earliest opportunity--I have never yet found adventure far from where I
was.”

“But your plan, sir?”

“It is simple enough. You must know that I am a musician not only by
nature, but by profession. My mandoline is my means of livelihood.”

“Then you should be a rich man,” said Harlequin.

“Thank you,” said Scaramouche. “You certainly have a very pretty way
of putting things. As you say, I _should_ be a rich man, a very rich
man indeed; nay, the richest man in the world. For art is the greatest
gift in the world, and music is the greatest of the arts, and, I think
I may say it without vanity, I am the greatest musician in Italy, and
therefore, of course, in the world. So you see ...”

“Quite,” said Harlequin, who knew nothing about art and was impatient
to learn Scaramouche’s plan.

“But, alas!” Scaramouche went on, “there are so few people who can
appreciate music for its own sake. Wherever I play, whether in the
humblest tavern or the most magnificent palace--and I am equally
at home in either--it is the same thing. ‘You play beautifully,
Scaramouche,’ they say, ‘but what a pity you do not sing or dance
as well! It would be so much more amusing.’ But, unfortunately, I
sing like a frog and dance like an elephant. Perhaps you can sing,
Harlequin?”

[Illustration]

“Not very well,” said Harlequin.

“What one cannot do very well, is not worth doing at all,” replied
Scaramouche sententiously. “But your dancing is certainly worth doing.
With me to play and you to dance, we shall earn not twice, but ten
times as much as I could earn alone. It will be gold instead of silver,
silver instead of coppers, and we shall make our fortunes. But maybe
you are rich already?”

“On the contrary,” said Harlequin, “when I have paid for my next meal,
I shall hardly have a penny in my pocket.”

“Good!” said Scaramouche. “You will dance all the better if your
supper depends on it. Are you ready to start?”

“To make my fortune? With all my heart. But where are you going to
begin?”

“In Venice,” said Scaramouche. “Venice is the place where fortunes are
made. Why, the merchants there are richer than princes anywhere else.
Have you never been there?”

“Until last night I had never been outside Bergamo,” Harlequin replied.

“You don’t say so?” said Scaramouche. “Well, I will not ask you why you
have left it now. I observe you wear a mask.”

“There is a reason for that,” said Harlequin, feeling rather a fine
fellow.

“Quite so. And far be it from one gentleman to ask another why he
chooses to go disguised. As a matter of fact,” Scaramouche added,
“your mask will not come amiss to our work. A touch of mystery always
appeals--especially to the women. You like women, Harlequin?”

“Why, yes,” said Harlequin, thinking of certain pretty lips in Bergamo.

“I did myself once,” said Scaramouche, “but nowadays I find them too
much trouble. A flagon of wine is more to my taste. Give me comfort and
a flagon of wine, and I want nothing more--until the flagon is empty.
But you are young. You will like Venice.”

“Then Venice be it,” said Harlequin.




_At Burattino’s Inn_


So Venice it was; and Harlequin not only liked Venice, as Scaramouche
had predicted, but found it a most astonishing city. Having never
before been outside Bergamo, he had, of course, never seen the sea.
And here was a town actually built on the sea; where the houses had
their feet in the water and people went about their business in boats.

Scaramouche took him to an inn kept by a certain Burattino, where he
had often stayed before.

“Burattino is a bit of an old rascal,” he told Harlequin, “but his
beds are soft and he keeps a good table. We could not do better than
make our headquarters with him. Also,” he added, “he has a very pretty
daughter.”

It was by this daughter of Burattino’s, whose name was Violetta, that
the travellers were welcomed.

Scaramouche kissed her.

[Illustration]

“Well, my dear,” he said, “it is nice to see you again. How do you find
yourself?”

“Blooming,” said the girl. And she looked it, with her plump, ruddy
cheeks and her sparkling eyes.

“This is my young friend Harlequin,” said Scaramouche. “He is a famous
dancer.”

“How do you do, sir?” said Violetta, and offered Harlequin her lips,
which he was not slow in saluting.

“I like your kisses better than Scaramouche’s,” she said. “He kisses
like an uncle. There is something of the lover in your way.”

“Naturally,” said Harlequin.

Violetta made him a merry curtsy.

“Neither of you seems to be wasting much time,” said Scaramouche.

“Play us a tune, Scaramouche,” said Violetta. “I want to see Harlequin
dance.”

So Scaramouche played, and Harlequin danced, and presently the girl
joined in.

“You dance beautifully,” Harlequin told her, when they had stopped.

“Nonsense,” retorted Violetta. “Wait till you see Columbine. She is
worthy to dance even with you.”

“Who is Columbine?” Harlequin asked.

But before Violetta could tell him, her father, who had been awakened
from his afternoon nap by Scaramouche’s music, came bustling out of the
inn. An enormous fellow was Burattino, round as a wine-cask and as red
and hearty as the wine of Burgundy.

“I guessed it was you, Scaramouche,” he cried.

“That was easy guessing,” said Scaramouche. “You heard me playing.”

“But I cannot guess who this young man may be, who seems on such
excellent terms with my flibbertigibbet of a daughter.”

Scaramouche introduced Harlequin to Burattino, and then they all went
indoors.

“We want two of your best beds, Burattino,” said Scaramouche.

“For as long as you like, my dear Scaramouche,” said the innkeeper; for
he knew that with Scaramouche there to make music his parlour would
always be full. When he learned of Harlequin’s wonderful dancing he
grew more cordial than ever, and hastened to set before his guests the
choicest of his cates and wine.

At present there was only one person besides themselves in the parlour;
but that was a very magnificent person indeed. He was a tall, gaunt
man, dressed in a gorgeous military uniform, with a great sword at his
side and an enormous pair of moustachios which he twirled continually.
He did not look at all pleased to see the newcomers, and glared at
them fiercely from under eyebrows which were fit companions to his
moustachios. Scaramouche, who had met him before, bowed to him, as
Harlequin thought, in rather a mocking manner. The soldier nodded
curtly.

“Who is that?” whispered Harlequin.

“That,” replied Scaramouche, “is the most illustrious Captain Spavente.
_What_ he is, I have no doubt you will find out for yourself before
long. Anyway, I am far too hungry to tell you about him now.”

He fell to work upon his dinner, and Harlequin followed his example.

“Ah!” said Scaramouche, when they had finished, “that was good.
Tramping the roads is all very well in its way. But there is nothing
like a cosy inn, good food and drink, and a comfortable bed to follow.
Were it not that I feel it would be cruel to deprive the rest of Italy
of my talent, I should be very much inclined to settle down here for
good.”

“You are a lazy fellow,” said Harlequin. “Certainly this is a very
excellent inn, and I am in no hurry to leave it. For one thing I look
forward to bettering my acquaintance with the fair Violetta. But I also
look forward to seeing the rest of the world, which I hope you have not
forgotten, Scaramouche, we are to conquer together.”

Scaramouche’s only answer was a snore.

Presently Violetta came to clear away the dishes. She laughed when she
saw Scaramouche.

“He makes music even when he is asleep,” she said. “Are you asleep,
too, Harlequin? It is so hard to tell with that mask of yours.”

“As if I should close my eyes when there is a chance of looking at
you!” said Harlequin.

“Flattery again,” said Violetta, and sat herself on Harlequin’s knee.
As she did so, she threw a mischievous glance towards Captain Spavente,
who still sat glowering on the other side of the room.

“Did you like your dinner?” she asked.

“I never ate a better,” cried Harlequin.

“’Twas I who cooked it,” said Violetta. “Have you no reward for me?”

“Only kisses,” said Harlequin, and gave her one.

“They are all I want,” said Violetta.

“You shall have as many as you will take, my dear,” said Harlequin, and
gave her another.

This was too much for Spavente. With a tremendous oath, he rose from
his seat, and, rattling his sword and twisting his moustachios faster
than ever, came striding across the room.

“Put that young lady down, sir,” he cried.

“You may have observed,” said Harlequin, “that she put herself up
of her own accord. I should be glad to learn by what authority you
presume to interfere with her freedom of action. You cannot be her
father, for I have met him. Perhaps you are her grandfather?”

This suggestion made Spavente furious. Although, for all his fine
clothes, he was but a battered veteran, he prided himself on his
youthful appearance.

“Do you know to whom you are speaking, sir?” he shouted.

“Well,” replied Harlequin, “my sleepy friend here did mention your
name, but such interesting things have happened since”--and he gave
Violetta a squeeze--“that I have clean forgotten it.”

“My name is Spavente,” said the other superbly. “Captain Spavente, of
the army of his Most Glorious Majesty, the King of Spain. I should
have thought that my fame, which has spread to the four corners of
Europe, would have reached even your miserable ears. For I have slain
my thousands on the field of battle and my hundreds on the duelling
ground. Now, sir, you know by what authority I bid you put that young
lady down. By the authority of a soldier and a gentleman to protect
innocent womanhood from insult.”

“Don’t be silly, Spavente,” said Violetta. “If I am innocent, it is not
your fault.”

“And if I refuse to put her down,” said Harlequin, “what then?”

“Why, then,” cried Spavente, “I shall be compelled to give you the
soundest drubbing that you ever had in your life. I scorn to stain
with your base gore the sword which has bathed in the bluest blood in
Christendom, but, though you are unworthy of its edge, you shall make
most intimate acquaintance with the flat of it.”

“Perhaps I had better put you down, after all,” Harlequin said to
Violetta.

“What!” she cried contemptuously. “Do you mean to say that you are
afraid of that wind-bag?”

“He seems to be a very redoubtable warrior, my dear,” Harlequin
replied, as he set her on her feet and got on to his own.

Violetta turned angrily away.

“Ah, ha!” said Spavente, twirling his moustachios in triumph. “I
thought I should soon bring you to a proper frame of mind.”

[Illustration]

“You mentioned a drubbing,” said Harlequin. “If that is an exercise in
which you are interested, I have a little thing here which may amuse
you.” He picked up his wand, bent it almost double, and let one end go
again with a swish. “A pretty toy, is it not?” he said, and advanced,
smiling, towards the Captain.

Spavente stepped back. The colour had left his cheeks, and even his
moustachios seemed to droop.

“My dear sir!” he cried. “Do be careful. That is a most dangerous thing
to play with.”

“You were talking of drubbings,” Harlequin began again.

“But you misunderstood me,” the soldier interrupted him, through
chattering teeth, “I assure you, you quite misunderstood me. I was
only jesting.”

“I am something of a jester myself,” said Harlequin, and whirled the
wand round Spavente’s head, missing his nose by a bare inch.

Violetta clapped her hands.

Spavente backed and backed, and, step for step, Harlequin followed him.
Once the wand just tweaked the Captain’s ear, and he set up such a roar
as awakened Scaramouche, who all this time had been peacefully asleep.

“What is the matter?” he asked, stretching himself and yawning. “Oh,
I see--the Captain. I told you you would soon find out about him,
Harlequin.”

Seeing his tormentor’s attention for a moment diverted, Spavente made a
bolt for the door. But in his haste he failed to notice a bench which
lay across his path. Over it he went, with a crash and a clatter; and
as he sprawled, face downwards, Harlequin, quick as lightning, seized
his opportunity. Swish fell the wand, and again and yet again, while
the Captain bellowed for mercy; till at last Violetta, though she
could hardly speak for laughing, took pity on his unhappy plight.

“That is enough, Harlequin,” she said. “Let him go now.”

So Harlequin stayed his hand, and the crestfallen soldier crept
blubbering from the room.

“That was charming,” said Harlequin. “It reminded me of my boyhood.”

“It made me thirsty,” said Scaramouche. “Such a dust!” And he sent
Violetta for wine.

Spavente did not appear again that evening; but the next day he was
back in his accustomed place, entertaining Burattino’s customers with
the story of the terrible thrashing which he had given Harlequin.

It was to be noted, however, that whenever Scaramouche, or Violetta, or
Harlequin himself happened to come into the room, he was seized with a
sudden fit of modesty.

[Illustration]




_The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment_


Scaramouche seemed to be in no hurry to start making that fortune of
which he had talked so eloquently to Harlequin. He was too comfortable
at the inn to care to stir far abroad. Harlequin, however, did not
mind; he was quite happy flirting with Violetta and poking fun at the
Captain.

Nevertheless, the two artists were not altogether idle. Every evening
they played and danced for the amusement of the company in the inn
parlour; and soon the excellence of their performance was the talk of
Venice. Harlequin became as famous as Scaramouche; folk flocked to
see him, and Burattino rubbed his fat hands with delight. Every one
was pleased except Spavente, to whose tales of his own prowess no one
would listen when the musician and the dancer were at work. He hated
Harlequin, which was not surprising, and vowed to be revenged on him.

It was not long before invitations began to come from the rich
merchants. Then Harlequin thought that he was indeed on the high road
to fortune, but Scaramouche said it was only a beginning.

“These tradesmen,” he said, “have certainly plenty of money, but they
know its value too well. Wait till the nobles begin to take notice of
us. However poor they may be--and some of them are little better than
beggars--they always seem to have gold to fling about. And fling it
about they do--like dirt.”

One day he came to Harlequin with his face as solemn as so round and
merry a face was capable of being.

“You will have to dance your best to-night, my friend,” he said. “We
are going to the Lady Isabella’s. Her palace is one of the finest
in Venice, and she is the greatest heiress--none of your upstart
merchant’s daughters, but a lady of the most ancient blood. If I am not
very much mistaken, we shall come home with a hat full of gold.”

So Harlequin practised some new pirouettes, Scaramouche tuned his
mandoline, and at the appointed hour they set forth.

On arriving at Isabella’s palace they were received by an immense
negro, clad in crimson velvet and gold lace, who led them through many
apartments, larger and more magnificent than any that Harlequin had
ever seen before, until they came to the largest and most magnificent
of all.

The walls were hung with rose-coloured brocade and panelled with long
mirrors in gilded and fantastically carven frames. The floors were
parquetted with rare woods and strewn with rugs from the East. A
thousand candles blazed in the candelabras of crystal which hung from
the moulded ceiling.

Nor was the company less handsome than its setting. Ladies, in
exquisite silks and laces, sat or reclined on gilded chairs and
couches. Gentlemen, dressed in the very latest fashion, stood before
them, or leaned confidentially over their shoulders. The ladies
fluttered their fans, the gentlemen toyed with their snuff-boxes, and
there was a babble of talk and easy laughter, punctuated at intervals
by the shrill yapping of a pampered and beribboned little lap-dog,
which ran from one group to another seeking sweetmeats and caresses.

Harlequin and Scaramouche performed on a platform at one end of the
room. At first, Harlequin was mortified to observe, very little notice
was taken of them, and the talking and laughter went on undiminished.
But gradually, fascinated by the sweet strains of Scaramouche’s
mandoline and by his companion’s graceful agility, the frivolous throng
grew more and more silent and attentive; and, when the dancing was
over, there was warm and genuine applause. Several of the dainty ladies
spoke to Harlequin, praising his skill, and he delighted them with the
aptness of his replies.

One of them asked him why he wore a mask.

“Ah, madam!” he said mysteriously, “I have the best of reasons.”

“I am sure you have,” cried the lady, tapping him with her fan. “For
I can see your eyes in spite of your mask, and they are the eyes of a
wicked fellow.”

And out of her own very beautiful eyes she shot him a killing glance.

There was only one note of discord in this brilliant scene. A little
apart from the rest of the company sat a lady who, though she was
handsomer and more richly dressed than any of the others, showed no
signs of gaiety. She had watched the dancing but listlessly, and when
any one addressed her she answered with few words and the faintest
and most melancholy of smiles; nor would she touch the delicious
refreshments which the servants, clad in the same gorgeous livery of
crimson and gold as the negro porter, carried round on silver trays.

[Illustration]

Her sadness distressed Harlequin, who considered the world a merry
place and thought that every one else should be of the same opinion.

On the way back to the inn, whither, as Scaramouche had predicted, they
sped with heavily laden pockets, he asked the musician who she was.

“Why, did you not know?” cried Scaramouche. “That was our hostess, the
Lady Isabella.”

“The Lady Isabella!” exclaimed Harlequin. “You astound me, Scaramouche.
What cause can she have for sadness? She is rich, she is beautiful,
she has a thousand gay and elegant friends. Why should one so fortunate
be sad?”

[Illustration]

“You are young, Harlequin,” said Scaramouche.

“You have told me that before,” Harlequin retorted.

“The truth cannot be told too often,” said Scaramouche, in his most
pompous manner. “And, being young,” he continued, “you as yet know
little of those mischances against which neither wealth nor beauty nor
friends are any protection.”

“What mischance has befallen the Lady Isabella?” Harlequin asked.

“That I cannot tell you,” replied Scaramouche. “It is some time since I
was in Venice, and much happens here in a little while. Ask your friend
Violetta. She always knows all the gossip.”

So Harlequin asked Violetta.

“Ah, poor Isabella!” said the girl, heaving a sigh. “Hers is, indeed,
a hard lot. She was betrothed to one of the most noble and quite the
handsomest young man in Venice. And he jilted her.”

“The scoundrel!” cried Harlequin. “What was his name?”

“Lelio,” said Violetta. “Such a lovely young man!”

“Lovely or not,” answered Harlequin, “I call him a scoundrel--to jilt
so beautiful a lady.”

“I suppose he could not help it, poor fellow,” said Violetta. “He saw
Columbine.”

“Who in the name of my great-grandmother is this Columbine?” cried
Harlequin. “You mentioned her the day I arrived here, and I meant to
get you to tell me about her, but I forgot.”

“You won’t forget Columbine when once you have seen her,” said
Violetta. “It is Violetta who will be forgotten then.”

“I shall never forget my little Violetta,” Harlequin protested. “Never.
Never. Never.” And after each “Never” he gave the girl a kiss.

Violetta laughed, and shook her pretty head.

“You are a nice boy, Harlequin,” she said. “You mean what you say, I am
sure. But I know men. I have no doubt that Lelio meant to be faithful
to Isabella--until he met Columbine.”

“What is there so wonderful about her?” Harlequin impatiently asked.

“Her charm is impossible to describe,” said Violetta. “But it is
wonderful. She is more like a fairy than a mortal girl.... All the
same, I would not be her for a thousand crowns. She leads the most
wretched of lives--shut up all day in a poky little house with no
one to talk to but her old curmudgeon of a father and that foolish
Pierrot.”

“Who is her father?” cried Harlequin. “And who is Pierrot?”

“Ah!” said Violetta, “you are beginning to get interested. Columbine’s
father is Pantaloon, the doctor; and Pierrot is his assistant. Though
of what assistance he can be I am unable to imagine; for his wits are
always in the clouds. Of course, like every one else, he is in love
with Columbine, who only laughs at him.”

“Does she laugh at Lelio, too?” Harlequin asked.

“I can’t imagine any one laughing at Lelio,” said Violetta. “He is far
too magnificent. Whether she loves him or not I cannot say; but whether
she loves him or not, Pantaloon is determined that she should marry
him.”

“Would he marry her against her will?” cried Harlequin.

“That he would,” Violetta replied. “Pantaloon is a proper old villain.
He has always been a most unnatural father, keeping Columbine as close
as though she were a nun. And since Lelio appeared on the scene he has
been worse than ever. I suppose he is afraid she will fall in love with
some one else. Of course it would be a fine thing for him to get a rich
nobleman for a son-in-law. He would be able to shut up his books, and
pour his physic into the gutter, which, I dare say, would be the best
place for it.”

“Does he never let Columbine out of the house?” asked Harlequin.

“Never but in his own company. Sometimes he takes her for a little
walk. I suppose he is afraid that she would else grow fat, and lose her
beauty. They pass this way occasionally, for their house is only at the
end of the street--the little white house at the corner.”

“Poor Columbine!” said Harlequin.

“Poor Harlequin,” said Violetta, “if ever he sees Columbine! And poor
Violetta! I must make the most of you while I still have you.”

And she flung her arms round his neck.




_How Harlequin First Saw Columbine_


A day or two later, while Harlequin sat chatting with Scaramouche, he
heard Violetta calling him.

“Harlequin!” she cried. “Come here to the window. Quick!”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Pantaloon and Columbine are passing.”

Harlequin hurried to the window.

“There they go,” said Violetta. “Isn’t she lovely?”

She certainly was very lovely, Harlequin thought. He had never seen
any one like her. Violetta was pretty; Isabella was handsome; but
Columbine was adorable. There was no other word for her. She was rather
small, but perfectly proportioned; every limb and feature were most
exquisitely made; her complexion was of the daintiest rose and cream;
her hair, a great golden coil round her beautiful little head, glinted
in the sunshine. Except for the rosebuds in her tiny straw hat, she was
dressed all in white, and her skirt was of some light gossamer stuff
which seemed to float its wearer through the air.

Harlequin remembered that Violetta had said that Columbine would
be worthy to dance even with him. “I should just think she would,”
he thought. “Why, she would make me look a clodhopper. She is
lighter-footed even than my mother. She hardly touches the ground at
all.”

Watching her till she was out of sight, he had no eyes for her
companion. Yet Pantaloon, in his own way, was well worth looking
at, for he was as ugly as his daughter was beautiful, as ungainly as
she was graceful. Wrapped in his rusty doctor’s cloak, with his great
spectacles on his great beak of a nose, he stumped goutily along at her
side, leaning heavily upon his silver-headed cane.

[Illustration]

“Well,” said Violetta, “what do you think of her?”

“She is quite a pretty little thing,” said Harlequin carelessly.

Violetta laughed.

“My dear Harlequin,” she cried, “you can’t take me in so easily as
that. I saw the way you looked at her.” And away she went to her work
in the kitchen, humming a merry little tune.

There was not a grain of jealousy in Violetta’s nature. Besides,
Harlequin was by no means the only string to her bow. She was not even
annoyed when, that evening, he forgot to kiss her good-night.

He forgot to kiss Violetta because, as she had foretold, he could think
of nothing but Columbine. Scaramouche noticed his absent-mindedness.

“What is the matter, Harlequin?” he said. “I believe you are in love.”

“Of course I am,” replied Harlequin quickly. “With Violetta.”

“Rubbish!” Scaramouche retorted. “That isn’t the way one loves
Violetta. You have been seeing Columbine.”

“How on earth did you guess?” cried Harlequin.

“I know the symptoms,” said Scaramouche. “But you would do far better
to stick to Violetta, my dear fellow. Columbine is not for you.”

“Don’t you make too sure of that,” said Harlequin, and fell to musing
again.

Scaramouche went to sleep, but presently he was awakened by a prod from
Harlequin’s long finger.

“Listen to this, Scaramouche,” said the dancer:

    “A dainty Venus rising from a sea
      Which foams in furbelows and breaks in frills:
    I’d simply love to take her on my knee ...

You didn’t know I was a poet, did you?”

“I am not sure that I know it now,” replied Scaramouche. “Any way, what
is the use of a poem without an ending?”

“I can’t think of the last line,” said Harlequin.

    “And simply hate to pay her washing bills,”

Scaramouche chanted, after a moment’s reflection, “How would that do?”

“It wouldn’t do at all,” Harlequin said. “You are a base old
materialist.”

“That is a very comfortable thing to be,” replied Scaramouche. “Far
better than being in love.” And he went off to bed.

Harlequin sat up for some time longer, racking his brains for an ending
to his poem. But all he could think of was:

    “And simply hate to take her father’s pills,”

which, if anything, was worse than Scaramouche’s suggestion.

“Perhaps I am not a poet, after all,” he said to himself, as he
lighted his candle and made his way upstairs, hoping to dream of
Columbine.

[Illustration]




_Harlequin Visits the Doctor_


Next morning, when neither Scaramouche nor Violetta was looking--for he
was terribly afraid that they would laugh at him--Harlequin slipped out
of the inn and walked as far as Pantaloon’s house.

“It is certainly an unpromising citadel to try to storm,” he thought,
as he observed the closed door and the heavily curtained windows,
through which, even if Columbine were behind them, there was not the
least chance of catching a glimpse of her.

“How on earth does one get into a house into which one has no sort of
an excuse for getting?” Harlequin asked himself. Then he recollected
that Pantaloon was a doctor.

“Why,” he cried, “what a fool I am! It is the simplest thing in the
world.”

So he pulled his face into a very miserable expression, and knocked at
the door.

He had to knock three times, and even then it was only after a great
rattling of chains and creaking of bolts that the door was opened.
Round it peered a long, white face, made all the whiter by the black
skull-cap which crowned it, a pair of big, melancholy eyes, and a
little scarlet mouth shaped like an O. This, as Harlequin immediately
guessed, was Pierrot.

“What do you want?” asked a thin, wavering voice.

“I am very ill,” said Harlequin. “I want to see Dr. Pantaloon.”

“Oh, do you?” said Pierrot. “Are you really very ill?”

“Dreadfully,” said Harlequin. “I feel as though I should die.”

“Well,” said Pierrot doubtfully, “I will ask him if he will see you. He
doesn’t see every one, you know.”

He shut the door in Harlequin’s face, and went away.

“What a heartless fellow!” thought Harlequin. “For all he cares I might
die in the street. And what a loon he looks! No wonder Columbine laughs
at him!”

Presently Pierrot opened the door again.

“You may come in,” he said. “This way.”

He led Harlequin into an untidy room, surrounded by shelves full of
curious contrivances and bottles containing liquids of various colours.
In one corner stood a skeleton, which grinned so stupidly and looked
so unsteady on its legs, that Harlequin wondered whether its owner had
died after a drinking bout. From the ceiling hung a stuffed crocodile
and some dried, outlandish fishes. There was a very unpleasant smell.

After a few minutes Pantaloon came stumping in. He glared fiercely at
Harlequin through his great horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Well,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“I am very ill,” Harlequin repeated. “I want you to cure me.”

“But you are not one of my regular patients,” said Pantaloon. “I only
attend to my regular patients.”

“But one cannot very well be a regular patient,” replied Harlequin,
“until one has paid you a first visit. Can one?”

“No,” said Pantaloon thoughtfully; “that is true enough. I see you are
a logician, sir.”

“Logician or not,” said Harlequin, “I like to have the best of
everything. So, naturally, being ill, I came to you.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Pantaloon, more amiably than he had yet
spoken. “But who told you to come to me?”

“Why,” cried Harlequin, “all Venice. For all Venice talks of the skill
and learning of Dr. Pantaloon.”

The doctor smiled, or at any rate grinned.

“I shouldn’t wonder if the bony gentleman in the corner was his
brother,” Harlequin thought.

“Well, young man,” said Pantaloon, “I will do what I can for you. Let
me look at your tongue.” Harlequin put out his tongue, which was as red
as a beetroot. Pantaloon peered at it.

“Horrible!” he said. “I am afraid you are very bad. Let me feel your
pulse.”

He took Harlequin’s wrist in one hand, and an enormous watch from his
pocket in the other.

“Tut-tut,” he said, “what a rate it is going!”

Harlequin noticed, however, that, whatever his pulse was doing, the
watch was not going at all.

“Have you any pain?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes,” said Harlequin, “a horrible pain.” And he rubbed himself
eloquently in the middle.

“It is a good thing you came to me,” said Pantaloon. “There is no one
else in Venice who could have saved your life.”

He took a bottle down from one of the shelves, and poured some pink
liquid into a glass. To this he added some green and then a little
purple. It was a very pretty mixture.

“Drink this,” he said to Harlequin. “It will do you a lot of good.”

“Mayn’t I take it home with me?” said Harlequin.

“Certainly not,” said Pantaloon. “All depends on your drinking it at
once.”

So Harlequin screwed up his face and gulped the stuff down: there was
nothing else to be done. He screwed up his face even more when he had
finished the draught.

[Illustration]

“Ugh!” he said.

“That will make you ever so much better,” said Pantaloon.

“It has made me ever so much worse,” the patient retorted, sinking into
a chair and clasping his head in his hands. “Oh, my poor head!” he
cried.

“What is the matter with it?” asked Pantaloon.

“It aches terribly,” said Harlequin.

“That is just as it should be,” said Pantaloon complacently. “The
medicine has driven the pain upwards. In a minute or two it will come
out at the top and you will be all right.”

“But I have a particularly sensitive head,” said Harlequin. “I have
been subject to these dreadful headaches ever since I was a baby. There
is only one thing that will cure them.”

“What is that?” Pantaloon asked.

“If a woman strokes my forehead with her soft hands,” Harlequin
replied. “That always makes me better. I suppose you have no one in the
house who would do it?”

“Certainly not,” said Pantaloon decidedly. “What a suggestion!”

“I only wondered,” said Harlequin innocently. “I thought perhaps your
daughter...”

“What do you know about my daughter?” cried Pantaloon, in a great rage.
“You are an impudent fellow. Get out of my house, sir! You have wasted
quite enough of my time. I don’t believe you are ill at all.”

“If I wasn’t when I came,” Harlequin retorted, “I am now--after your
disgusting medicine.”

“How dare you, sir?” the Doctor shouted. “It is the most excellent
medicine in the world--far too good to be poured down your worthless
gullet. Now be off with you.”

“With all the pleasure in life,” said Harlequin, and made for the door.

“Not so fast,” cried Pantaloon. “Before you go, I want my fee. A crown,
if you please.”

“A crown!” exclaimed Harlequin. “A crown for that vile potion? You
ought to pay me for drinking it.”

“If you don’t pay up,” said Pantaloon, in a threatening voice, “I will
call the police and have you arrested for the rogue you are.”

Harlequin realised that there was nothing to be gained by making the
Doctor any angrier, so he reluctantly gave him a crown and took his
departure.

Pierrot, who had been present, silent and melancholy, during the whole
interview, let him out of the house.

“That isn’t the way to go to work, my friend,” he said, as he unbolted
the door.

“What do you mean?” asked Harlequin sharply.

“I know quite well what you are after,” said Pierrot, in his mournful
little voice. “But it is no use. Even if you could get near her (which
you can’t), it wouldn’t be any use. She wouldn’t look at you. She won’t
look at me.”

“That is a very different thing,” said Harlequin contemptuously.

All the same he had to admit to himself that he had not made a very
successful beginning. He had failed to see Columbine, made an enemy of
her father, and been forced, into the bargain, to pay a crown for the
nastiest drink he had ever tasted.

[Illustration]




_Violetta Sets Her Wits to Work_


“Wherever have you been all this time?” asked Violetta, as Harlequin
entered the inn.

“Nowhere in particular,” said Harlequin carelessly.

Violetta laughed.

[Illustration]

“That means that he has been somewhere very particular indeed,” she
said to Scaramouche. “I shouldn’t mind wagering twenty crowns that he
has been trying to see Columbine.”

“And I shouldn’t mind wagering fifty that he has not succeeded,”
replied Scaramouche.

“Did you, Harlequin?” Violetta asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Harlequin admitted. “But I made the acquaintance of her
papa.”

“I am sure he was delighted to make yours,” said Scaramouche
sarcastically. “He is noted for his hospitality.”

“He certainly insisted on giving me a drink,” said Harlequin, pulling a
wry face.

“Do tell us what happened,” cried Violetta.

So Harlequin told them; and before he had finished they were both
nearly dying of laughter.

“I don’t see that it was as funny as all that,” said Harlequin sulkily.

“Poor Harlequin!” said Violetta. “What a shame! But I should have
thought you were too clever to go such a simple way to work.”

“Well,” said Harlequin, “since Columbine hardly ever goes outside the
house, I thought my best chance of seeing her was to get inside.”

“Pantaloon was quite right,” said Scaramouche, “you are a logician,
Harlequin. Unfortunately, things don’t always happen logically in this
casual and rather ridiculous world.”

“You know a lot of long words, Scaramouche,” said Violetta, “but they
won’t help Harlequin to see Columbine.”

“Is it absolutely necessary that he should see her?” Scaramouche asked.

“Of course it is,” replied Violetta. “He wants to; and Harlequin is
one of those people who must always have what they want. Aren’t you,
Harlequin?”

“How well you know me, Violetta!” said Harlequin.

“But Columbine might not like him if she did see him,” objected the
sceptical Scaramouche.

“Nonsense!” said Violetta. “Who could help liking Harlequin?”

“Violetta, you are a darling,” cried Harlequin, and kissed the girl.

“You haven’t done that for more than twenty-four hours,” she said.

“It won’t be twenty-four seconds before I do it again,” Harlequin
retorted. And it wasn’t.

“You seem to be getting away from the matter in hand,” Scaramouche
remarked drily.

“Oh, no, we aren’t,” replied Violetta. “Harlequin is only rehearsing.”

“Don’t be unkind, Violetta,” said Harlequin, giving her waist a gallant
squeeze. “I am not sure that I want to meet Columbine after all.”

“Now you are being silly, Harlequin,” said Violetta. “You know you want
to meet her. Of course you like kissing me--who wouldn’t? But wait till
you have kissed Columbine.”

“It appears that I shall have to wait,” said Harlequin.

“You are a faint-hearted fellow,” said Scaramouche, “to be put off at
the first check. Why don’t you try again when Pantaloon is out?”

“That is no good,” said Violetta scornfully. “Pantaloon very rarely
goes out--except when he is summoned to a patient. And when he does go,
he locks the door on the outside--so that neither Columbine nor Pierrot
can open it.”

“Do you mean to say that he locks them up alone together?” cried
Harlequin. “But after all,” he added, “why shouldn’t he? That
white-faced moon-gazer is more like a girl than a boy--and more like a
ghost than either.”

“Poor Pierrot!” said Violetta. “I pity him.”

“You pity everybody,” said Harlequin rather shortly.

“Violetta has a very large heart,” said Scaramouche.

“And a tolerably long head,” the girl retorted. “Harlequin doesn’t seem
to be able to help himself; and you are far too lazy to try to help
him. But I have a notion that I can.”

“Have you?” cried Harlequin eagerly. “Oh, do tell me! Quick!”

“Well,” said Violetta, “the important thing is not that Columbine
should see you, but that she should see you dancing. She adores dancing
more than anything else in the world, though it is not much that she
gets of it, poor lamb! There is no one to dance with her, and I am sure
she has little heart for dancing alone. Pierrot, though he sings very
nicely, can’t dance a bit; and as for Lelio, if looks go for anything,
he is far too stiff and solemn for anything livelier than a minuet. So
to see a dancer like you, Harlequin, would be a wonderful treat for
her. And if you could only dance together, she would be yours for ever.”

“What bliss!” exclaimed Harlequin. “But how is it to be managed? How
can we ever dance together?”

“That we must think about later,” said Violetta. “It is no use being
impatient: we must take one step at a time. If only we can contrive
that she should see you, that would be a great thing.”

“But can we?” Harlequin asked.

“I think so,” Violetta answered. “You can dance in the street as well
as in a house, I suppose?”

“Of course,” said Harlequin.

“And Columbine can look out of a window,” said Violetta. “The point
is to get her to look out of the window at the same time that you are
dancing in the street.”

“That ought to be easy,” said Harlequin.

“It isn’t in the least easy,” replied Violetta. “How are we to let her
know that you are going to be there?”

“By sending her a letter, I suppose,” said Harlequin.

“By sending her a letter!” repeated Violetta in contemptuous tones.
“Why, Pantaloon would be the first to read it. All the same, a letter
it must be--only it mustn’t be _sent_: it must be delivered straight
into Columbine’s own hands by some one we can trust.”

“Whom can we trust?” asked Harlequin, who was beginning to despair.

“Only ourselves,” said Violetta. “You--I--and Scaramouche. At least I
suppose we can trust you, Scaramouche?”

“You can count on me, my dear,” said the musician. “I am no
spoil-sport.”

“But which of us is to deliver the letter?” said Harlequin.

“Well, you have seen what luck you had when you tried to get near the
young lady,” said Violetta. “And Scaramouche would fare no better. It
is plain that it will have to be me.”

“Oh, will you?” cried Harlequin. “Dear Violetta!”

“I will try, at any rate,” the girl replied. “But it is not going to be
easy even for me. Besides, there is another thing.”

“Oh dear!” said Harlequin. “There seems to be no end to the
difficulties. What is this one?”

“Pantaloon himself,” said Violetta. “Of course he must be got out of
the way. It wouldn’t help us much if he were to catch you at your
capers, would it?”

“I’ll look after Pantaloon,” said Scaramouche.

[Illustration:]




_Violetta Plots and Columbine Wonders_


So Violetta set out for Pantaloon’s house. She would not tell Harlequin
and Scaramouche exactly what she meant to do, but they noticed that she
carried under her arm a bottle of the best wine in her father’s cellar.

“Good afternoon, Pierrot,” she said, when the doctor’s pale assistant
had opened the door to her.

“Good afternoon, Violetta,” said Pierrot. “What brings you here? I hope
you are not ill.”

“Dear me, no,” replied Violetta. “I only want to see Pantaloon.”

“He is very busy at his books,” said Pierrot doubtfully.

“Tell him my father has sent him a present,” said Violetta, and held
up the bottle. “That will fetch him, I know.”

“Couldn’t I take it to him?” Pierrot asked.

“No,” said Violetta. “I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, Violetta!” Pierrot protested. “What a thing to say! I daresay I
have my faults, like other people; but I am not a thief. Besides, I
never drink wine. Half a glass makes me tipsy.”

“That is just why I don’t trust you,” said Violetta. “You have such a
weak head. Why, you would go dreaming along and drop the bottle before
you had got it to Pantaloon.”

“You have a very poor opinion of me, haven’t you, Violetta?” said
Pierrot pathetically.

“Now don’t stay arguing,” cried Violetta. “Run along and fetch
Pantaloon, that is a good boy.”

When Pantaloon heard what Violetta had brought him, he came out of his
study without delay.

“This is very kind of Burattino,” he cried, gazing affectionately
at the bottle. “Very kind, indeed.... Why, my dear, whatever is the
matter?”

For Violetta had suddenly uttered a desperate groan.

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” she cried. Clutching at her bodice, she gave
another groan more harrowing than the first, and leaned against the
wall as though she could not stand without support.

“She is fainting,” said Pierrot.

“I am afraid she is,” said Pantaloon. “We must bring her indoors.”

Together, though neither of them was very strong and Violetta was a
solidly built young woman, they got her into the house; while all the
time Violetta gasped and groaned and clutched at her dress.

“She will suffocate, if she goes on like this,” said Pantaloon. “We
must undo her stays.”

At that Violetta gave forth a shriek of horror.

[Illustration]

“No, no!” she cried. “I won’t let you! I am a modest girl.” Then she
groaned again.

“You must let us,” said Pantaloon. “Otherwise you will stifle.”

“I would rather stifle,” said Violetta obstinately, “than let you touch
me.”

“You can’t stifle in my house,” said Pantaloon. “Think of my
reputation.”

Violetta only groaned worse than ever.

“I must undo them,” said Pantaloon.

“No,” cried Violetta. “Not for the world!”

“Then undo them yourself,” said the Doctor crossly.

“I can’t,” Violetta moaned. “I feel too weak.”

“What is to be done?” cried Pantaloon.

“There is only one thing to be done, master,” said Pierrot. “We must
call Columbine. After all, it is only a girl.”

“I suppose there is nothing else for it,” said Pantaloon reluctantly.
“If the young woman dies here, that old gossip Burattino will tell
everybody, and I shall be ruined. Fetch Columbine, Pierrot.”

So Pierrot fetched Columbine, and Pantaloon told her what she was to
do.

“You must turn your backs,” said Violetta to Pantaloon and Pierrot.

“Very well,” said Pantaloon. “You are a very particular young lady--for
an innkeeper’s daughter. Turn round, Pierrot.”

Columbine was looking very much alarmed, but so soon as the men’s backs
were turned Violetta gave her an encouraging smile and beckoned her
to come close. Columbine prepared, with timid fingers, to do what she
supposed was expected of her, but the other girl impatiently stopped
her.

“Never mind about that,” she whispered. “Here, take this.” And she
thrust a twisted scrap of paper into Columbine’s hands. “Hide it!
Quick!”

Columbine, blushing and bewildered, thrust the note into the top of her
dress.

“We have finished,” said Violetta. “You may turn round now.”

“You have not been long,” said Pantaloon.

“Of course not,” replied Violetta scornfully. “Columbine is a
woman--not a clumsy man.”

“Well,” said Pantaloon. “I hope you feel better.”

“Much better, thank you,” said Violetta. “I can’t think what made me
come over so queer. How much have I to pay you?”

“I charge nothing to Burattino’s daughter,” Pantaloon answered with a
grin. He quite believed that he had saved the girl’s life, and hoped
that her father would show his gratitude with another bottle, or
perhaps a whole cask.

Violetta took her departure, and Columbine hurried back to her room.
She wanted to be alone to read that mysterious note.

It was a very short note indeed. This was all that was in it:

 “_Next time your father goes out, look out of the window at the side
 of the house._”

Nothing more--not even a signature. Columbine, who had never received
a letter before, found it very exciting. What could it mean? She would
certainly do as it told her, though unfortunately, she reflected, she
might have to wait a long time. Sometimes her father did not leave the
house for days together. Naturally kind hearted as she was, Columbine
could not help hoping that some one might soon be taken ill and send
for him.

The door opened and Pierrot entered. Columbine had only just time to
hide the note.

“I wish you would knock before you come into my room,” she said
severely.

“You have never asked me to do that before,” said Pierrot, with his
melancholy smile.

“Perhaps not,” replied Columbine. “But I am grown up now, remember.”

“You have grown up very suddenly,” said Pierrot. “I wonder if Violetta
helped you to grow up?”

“What do you mean?” cried Columbine.

“I only wondered,” said Pierrot.

[Illustration]

“I don’t believe you turned your back properly,” said Columbine angrily.

“Oh, yes I did,” Pierrot answered. “I always do what I am told. But my
eyes can see a long way round the corner, you know.”

Columbine looked at him. His long, narrow eyes certainly were very far
apart.

“What did you see?” she asked.

Pierrot smiled.

“I am not at all sure that I ought not to tell your father,” he said.

“Oh, Pierrot!” cried the girl, in a panic. “You wouldn’t do that!”

“It may be my duty,” said Pierrot solemnly. “I always like to do my
duty.”

“But what _did_ you see?” Columbine repeated.

Again Pierrot only smiled.

“I don’t believe you saw anything at all,” said Columbine. “You are
simply teasing me.”

“It is not what one sees, my dear,” Pierrot began still more solemnly.

“I am not your dear,” said Columbine, stamping her little foot.

“Yes, you are,” said Pierrot. “You may not think you are--you may not
want to be--but you are. And it is a very good thing for you that you
are. But to go on with what I was saying when you interrupted me--it is
not what one sees that is important: it is what one feels. And I feel
that there is mischief brewing.”

“I am sure I hope there is,” said Columbine rebelliously.

“Oh, Columbine!” said Pierrot, shocked.

“Well,” said Columbine, “it is about time something happened. I am
sick and tired of being cooped up here with nothing to do, never going
anywhere, and seeing no one but you and Papa.”

“And Lelio,” Pierrot put in.

“Oh, don’t talk to me of Lelio,” said Columbine, frowning.

“I am sure I don’t want to talk of him,” said Pierrot. “He is no friend
of mine. He treats me like a dog.”

“It’s a shame,” cried Columbine.

“I don’t really mind that,” said Pierrot sadly. “I am used to it. It
doesn’t matter how he treats me. But he is going to take Columbine
away. That is what I can’t forgive him.”

“He is going to do nothing of the kind,” said Columbine decidedly. “I
will never marry Lelio, Pierrot.”

“I don’t know what your father will do if you don’t,” Pierrot said.

“I don’t care what he does,” replied Columbine. Pierrot had never
seen her in so rebellious a mood, and he thought that it made her,
if possible, lovelier than ever. “He can lock me up and feed me on
bread and water,” she went on. “He can make me take all his nastiest
medicines every day. But I won’t marry Lelio.” And again she stamped
her foot.

“You know very well that I don’t want you to marry him,” said Pierrot.
“But all the same, I can’t help thinking that the sooner you are safely
settled in life, the better it will be. I am quite sure there is
mischief brewing. I feel it in my bones.”

“I don’t know where else you would feel it,” Columbine scoffed. “You
are nothing else but bones.”

“I have a heart, too, Columbine,” said Pierrot, sighing.

“Please don’t start talking about your heart, Pierrot,” said Columbine.
“I have heard about it so often.”

“Cruel Columbine!” sighed Pierrot.

Columbine pirouetted round the room.

“I can’t help it, Pierrot,” she said. “When you begin making love to me
I always want to laugh. Do you really love me very much, Pierrot?”

“You know I do,” cried Pierrot.

“Then will you do something for me?”

“Anything in the world,” said Pierrot, striking a lovelorn attitude.

“Then,” said Columbine, “promise me that whatever you have guessed, and
whatever you notice during the next few days, you will say nothing to
Papa.”

“Oh, Columbine!” cried Pierrot; “you are not going to do anything
dreadful?”

“I don’t know what I am going to do,” Columbine laughed. “I don’t know
what is going to happen. But promise. If you don’t you shall never
come into this room again, whether you knock or not.”

“I promise,” said Pierrot.

“Then you may kiss ... my hand,” said Columbine.

Pierrot, grateful for small mercies, fell on his knees.

[Illustration]




_Harlequin’s Opportunity_


Violetta returned to the inn, extremely well pleased with the success
of her ruse. She found the others eagerly awaiting her, and told them
what she had accomplished.

“Bravo!” cried Scaramouche. “You are a clever wench, Violetta.”

As for Harlequin, he was so delighted that he danced about the room and
made Violetta dance with him until she was breathless.

“You should save your breath for dancing to Columbine,” she panted,
when at last he had let her go.

“I am ready to begin now,” cried Harlequin, who could dance all day
without tiring. “What about your plan for getting old Pantaloon out of
the way, Scaramouche?”

“It is too late to carry it out this evening,” replied the musician.

“Upon my soul,” exclaimed Harlequin, “you are incorrigibly lazy!”

“You mustn’t be so impatient, Harlequin,” said Violetta. “It is much
too late. It is nearly dark--and what on earth would be the use of your
dancing before Columbine’s window if she could not see you?”

Harlequin could not help acknowledging the force of this argument: so
he made up his mind to wait till the morning with as much patience as
he could muster. But he was far too excited to sleep. He spent half the
night inventing new and fantastic dance steps--greatly to the annoyance
of Scaramouche, who shared a bedroom with him.

“If you don’t leave off jigging about there, and get into bed, I won’t
stir a finger to help you,” yawned the sleepy musician.

That quieted Harlequin; but though he lay down, he did not go to sleep,
and he dragged his friend out of bed at a very early hour.

“This is the last time I shall ever offer to assist any one in their
love affairs,” Scaramouche grumbled, as he pulled on his clothes.

After breakfast, over which, in spite of Harlequin’s growing
impatience, Scaramouche absolutely refused to hurry, the musician told
the dancer to go and hide near Pantaloon’s house.

“Be sure,” he added, “that you choose a spot where you cannot be seen,
but from which you can yourself see who goes in and out.”

Harlequin picked up his wand, kissed Violetta, and skipped away.

“That is the last of Harlequin,” said Violetta a little wistfully.

“But he will come back,” said Scaramouche.

“His body may,” Violetta replied, “but his heart will stay with
Columbine.”

“I don’t believe Harlequin has a heart,” said Scaramouche.

“Columbine will find one,” said Violetta.

Presently Spavente, who always slept late, swaggered in, and sent
Violetta for his breakfast.

Scaramouche strolled across to his table.

“Good morning, my dear Captain,” he said. “I hope you are feeling well
this fine morning.”

“Perfectly well, I thank you, sir,” replied Spavente, a good deal
surprised at the other’s unaccustomed politeness.

“I am very glad to hear you say so,” said Scaramouche, in a doubtful
tone. “Very glad indeed. In fact, I am very much relieved.”

“Why?” cried Spavente. “Don’t I look well?”

“Since you ask me,” said Scaramouche, “I feel obliged to confess that
you don’t. In my opinion, you look far from well.”

These words threw the Captain into a state of the utmost alarm; which
was exactly what the wily musician had hoped they would do, for he knew
that Spavente was as big a coward about his health as in other ways.

“Dear, dear!” said the unhappy Spaniard; “now that you mention it, I
really don’t think that I am altogether up to the mark.”

“I should say you were very much below it,” said Scaramouche.

“Yes,” said Spavente. “I am afraid I am.”

At that moment Violetta entered with his breakfast.

“Take it away,” cried Spavente, shuddering. “I can’t look at it.”

“Why, Captain,” Violetta asked, “whatever is the matter?”

“I am far too ill to eat anything,” said Spavente.

“Ill?” said the girl, in unfeigned surprise, for she was not in
Scaramouche’s secret. “It is nothing catching, I hope?”

“I don’t know what it is,” wailed the soldier. “I wish I did.”

“I think you ought to send for the doctor, my friend,” said Scaramouche.

“Yes, I think I ought,” agreed Spavente. “For whom had I better send?”

“Why, for Pantaloon, of course,” said Scaramouche, winking at
Violetta, who, immediately understanding what was afoot, winked
gleefully back. “He is the best doctor in Venice. Besides, he lives so
near. Let me fetch him for you.”

“Would you be so kind?” said Spavente. “I should take it as a great
favour if you would.”

“Say no more about that,” cried Scaramouche heartily. “Now just you go
back to bed, and I will have Doctor Pantaloon to you in ten minutes.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Harlequin, watching from his hiding-place, saw Scaramouche arrive at
the Doctor’s door, which, after the usual delay, was opened by Pierrot.
Scaramouche went inside, but it was not long before he came out again,
and, to the dancer’s joy, he was accompanied by Pantaloon.

The Doctor, in fact, had been in no way loath to visit Spavente.
Knowing him only by sight, he judged him from his clothes to be a
very fine gentleman indeed, and scented a profitable patient. Had he
seen the length of the score chalked up against the Captain’s name on
Burattino’s slate, he would undoubtedly have stayed at home.

As it was, however, he hurried towards the inn as fast as his gouty
feet would carry him. And luckily he did not look round; or he would
have seen Harlequin blowing him a derisive kiss as he skipped towards
the window at which Violetta had told him that he might hope to see
Columbine.

Harlequin looked up at the window, and he was not disappointed. For no
sooner had Columbine heard the door close behind her father and his
visitor, than she had made haste to follow the instructions contained
in that mysterious and exciting letter. So Harlequin had a glimpse of a
golden head peeping timidly from behind the curtains.

Then he began to dance, as never in his life he had danced before. The
great ladies who had applauded him at Isabella’s and other houses would
have been amazed if they could have seen him. He had given them of his
best, but the hope of pleasing Columbine inspired him to something
far better than his best. He found himself doing beautiful intricate
steps which he did not know that he knew. Tunes came into his head more
delicious than any that had ever flowed from Scaramouche’s mandoline,
and his feet followed them of their own accord.

All the time, he was watching Columbine’s window. At first he could see
nothing but that glimpse of golden hair. Little by little, however, the
heavy curtains parted, and presently the casement was thrown open, and
Columbine, her timidity lost in wonder and delight, leaned far out over
the sill. Indeed, she leaned so far that Harlequin grew nervous and
stopped dancing.

For a few moments they looked at one another without speaking. Then
Harlequin made his most graceful bow.

“Well,” he said, “did you like it?”

“Oh, it was perfect,” cried Columbine. “I have never seen anything like
it before. But who are you? What is your name?”

Harlequin told her.

“I know yours,” he added.

“Do you?” said Columbine. But her thoughts were still on the wonderful
dancing.

“I never imagined any one could dance like that,” she said.

“You could yourself,” said Harlequin.

“Oh, no!” Columbine protested.

“Violetta says you could,” Harlequin replied. “She says you love
dancing.”

“I do,” cried Columbine, “above all things. But I can’t dance like you.”

“Try,” said Harlequin. “Let us dance together.”

“How can we?” Columbine asked. “I can’t get out.”

“But I could get in,” said Harlequin, “if you would let down a rope.”

“Oh, I daren’t!” cried Columbine. “Supposing my father should catch us?”

For his own part Harlequin was prepared to risk even that, so anxious
was he to get nearer to Columbine; but seeing that she was really
frightened by his suggestion, he did not press it.

“Well, then,” he said, “I will dance down here, and you shall dance up
there. How would that be?”

“Yes,” said Columbine. “Let us do that.”

So Harlequin began dancing again, and Columbine, after watching him for
a moment, joined in. She followed him perfectly, repeating even his
most intricate movements with exquisite grace.

They were still dancing, he on the ground and she at the window, when
Violetta appeared on the scene. She clapped her hands in admiration,
and then she put one of them on Harlequin’s shoulder.

“That was very pretty,” she cried, “but you must stop now. Pantaloon
will be here in a minute or two.”

Harlequin said something exceedingly rude about Pantaloon, and
Columbine turned as white as her dress.

“Never mind, Columbine,” said Harlequin, who was incapable of being
anything but cheerful for more than ten seconds together, “I shall come
again. Next time you must have that rope handy. You dance divinely.”

“Do I, Harlequin?” Columbine murmured shyly.

“Of course you do,” said Harlequin. “How could you do anything except
divinely? For you are divine yourself. You are an adorable little
goddess.”

Columbine went as rosy as she had before been white, and hung her
golden head.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” said Violetta, “but you really must come
away.”

“Very well,” said Harlequin reluctantly. “Good-bye, Columbine.”

“Good-bye, Harlequin.”

[Illustration]




_Pierrot Sings to Columbine_


“Not that way, stupid,” said Violetta, as Harlequin, with one last look
back towards Columbine’s window, started to take the usual road to the
inn. “We should run straight into Pantaloon.”

She led him up a side street, and as they made their roundabout way
homewards, gave him an account of the Doctor’s interview with Spavente,
to which she had listened through the keyhole.

“It really was very funny,” she said. Pantaloon had kept asking
Spavente what was the matter with him, and Spavente, of course, had
been unable to say. But Scaramouche had kept suggesting all sorts of
aches and pains, which no sooner had he mentioned than Spavente was
quite sure that he felt them. In the end, Pantaloon had come to the
conclusion that the Captain was very ill indeed, and had ordered him to
stay in bed until his next visit.

“But I don’t believe you are listening,” said Violetta crossly.

“I am, Violetta, I am,” protested Harlequin, who, as a matter of fact,
had not been listening very closely, for his mind kept wandering away
to Columbine. “You said something about Pantaloon’s next visit, didn’t
you?”

“Yes,” said Violetta. “He is going to call on Spavente again to-morrow
morning.”

“Oh, how splendid!” Harlequin cried. He threw his wand high into the
air and neatly caught it as it fell. “I shall be able to go to see
Columbine again.”

“Yes,” said Violetta, “and I shouldn’t be surprised if you were able
to do so every day for a week at least. You see, Scaramouche told
Pantaloon that Spavente was a nobleman in his own country, and had a
great estate there. So, of course, the old villain won’t let him get
better in a hurry. He looks forward to sending in a nice long bill. I
hope he may get it paid!”

“I’ll pay it myself, as a thank-offering for my good fortune,” cried
Harlequin. “A week! Why, anything may happen in a week.”

“A good deal has happened in a morning, I fancy,” said Violetta. “You
have won Columbine already, Harlequin.”

“Do you really think so?” cried Harlequin. “Oh, Violetta, how
wonderful! The mere thought makes me want to dance for joy. Let us
dance the rest of the way home, Violetta.”

“No, thank you,” said Violetta shortly. “I don’t feel inclined to
dance.”

Harlequin looked at her in surprise.

       *       *       *       *       *

So soon as Harlequin was out of sight, and Columbine, still blushing,
had left the window, Pierrot entered her room. He gazed at Columbine
reproachfully out of his big, sad eyes.

“I was watching, too,” he said. “Downstairs.”

“Indeed!” said Columbine, as calmly as she could. “I hope you enjoyed
yourself.”

“Enjoyed myself!” exclaimed Pierrot. “As if I could, with that fellow
trying to dance the heart out of your body.”

“What nonsense you talk, Pierrot!” Columbine cried.

[Illustration]

“I wish it was nonsense,” said Pierrot. “He was not only trying, but
by the colour of your cheeks I am rather inclined to think that he
succeeded.”

Columbine stamped her foot.

“You are very impertinent,” she cried, in the prettiest of rages.

“It is all for your good, my dear,” said Pierrot.

Columbine was too angry for words.

“Do you know who the fellow is?” Pierrot asked her.

Columbine did not reply.

“There,” said Pierrot, “you talk out of the window with a man about
whom you know nothing. I am surprised at you, Columbine.”

“I do know something about him,” said Columbine defiantly. “I know his
name, anyway.”

“And a queer, outlandish name it is,” Pierrot retorted. “No one with
a name like that could possibly be up to any good. Then look at his
extraordinary clothes. And why, I should like to know, does he wear a
mask?”

“I think his clothes are beautiful,” said Columbine, “and his mask
makes him all the more interesting.”

“He would have no cause to wear it if he were an honest man,” said
Pierrot.

“I believe _you_ know something about him, Pierrot,” cried Columbine.

“Nothing to his credit,” Pierrot replied, and he told her how Harlequin
had come to Pantaloon shamming sick, and how he had asked for Columbine
to cure his headache.

Columbine found this extremely thrilling. Evidently, Harlequin had
wanted to make her acquaintance very much indeed.

“But how did he know about me?” she wondered.

“He must have seen you passing Burattino’s,” said Pierrot. “He is
living there.”

“Living at Burattino’s?” cried Columbine. “So that was why
Violetta----” She stopped in confusion.

“Ah, ha!” said Pierrot. “So Violetta did bring you a message, did she?
The minx! I suppose she was shamming, too. And it was that old rogue
Scaramouche who fetched your father away this morning. He is hand in
glove with this Harlequin. Why, the whole thing is clearly a plot. Oh,
Columbine, be careful!”

“But it is so exciting,” said Columbine.

“It will be exciting enough when your father finds out,” said Pierrot.

“He must never find out,” said Columbine in a frightened voice. “You
won’t tell him, will you, Pierrot? Remember your promise.”

“Yes,” said Pierrot slowly. “I have not forgotten it. But I am so
afraid, Columbine.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, you goose,” laughed Columbine. “I am
not afraid. I think I am very happy.”

“I wish I could be,” said Pierrot mournfully.

“I wish you would try to look a little more cheerful, any way,” said
Columbine. “Sing me something. Haven’t you made any new songs lately?”

“Yes,” Pierrot said. “I made one last week. I don’t suppose you will
like it.”

“I can’t tell that till I have heard it, can I?” said Columbine. “Sing
it to me.”

So in his melancholy voice, to a melancholy, wandering tune, Pierrot
sang his song:

  Blue shadows everywhere
  Fuse the foliage into fairy walls--
  A dusky curtain, which falls
  Between us and all real things.
  Some one sings
  Somewhere a plaintive air,
  Plucking lightly the while from a mandoline’s strings
  Delicate melodies.

  Nearer, among the trees,
  A shimmer of white and pink,
  A dryad in silk and lace:
  It is Clotilde, I think,
  Though I cannot see her face,
  Which is turned away
  Where some one is saying the things she loves to hear.

  Once it was I who whispered thus in her ear.
  Last year? Or yesterday?
  No days nor years are here--
  Only late afternoon,
  Where Clotilde and a lover play
  And wait for the moon.

Pierrot’s voice trailed away into silence.

“Who is Clotilde?” Columbine asked, a little jealously.

“A dream lady,” said Pierrot.

“What a strange boy you are, Pierrot!” said Columbine. “And what
strange songs you make! You will have to make a merrier one for my
wedding with Harlequin.”

“Oh, don’t talk of such a thing,” cried Pierrot.

At that moment Pantaloon’s raucous voice was heard calling up the
stairs for his assistant.

[Illustration]




_Captain Spavente Makes Mischief_


Pantaloon found Spavente’s illness very puzzling. Usually all he had
to do was to tell his patient in long words what the patient had told
him in short words, concoct a mixture from his bottles, and pocket his
fee. But Spavente could only tell him what Scaramouche suggested, and
Scaramouche’s suggestions were so astonishing, and varied so from day
to day, that the poor Doctor was quite bewildered. He felt that even
if he mixed together the contents of all the bottles on his shelves,
the concoction would hardly meet so complicated a case. He continued,
however, to visit the Captain every morning, gloating over the thought
of the bill which was piling up and enjoying the glass of wine which
that amiable girl Violetta never forgot to bring him.

And every morning Harlequin danced outside Columbine’s window, while
she danced behind it; though, as the days went on, they spent less and
less of their precious time in dancing, and more and more in talking.
They found that they had a great deal to say to one another.

Pierrot, watching from his lower window (unnoticed by Harlequin), grew
more and more anxious.

Harlequin never ceased trying to persuade Columbine to let down a rope
to him. For several days she only shook her golden head, but at last
she yielded to his entreaties, and Pierrot, leaning out and looking
upwards, saw the dancer’s many-coloured legs disappear into the room
above. He cast up his eyes and threw up his hands in despair.

Harlequin took Columbine in his arms.

“Oh, you lovely child!” he said.

Then he kissed her, and it was quite a different kiss from any that he
had given to Violetta or the girls in Bergamo.

“I love you, Columbine,” he said.

“And I love you, Harlequin,” said Columbine.

After a while they began to dance together, and never had either of
them so much enjoyed dancing, or danced so beautifully, before.

Violetta, coming as usual to warn Harlequin of Pantaloon’s return,
and not seeing him anywhere, wondered what had happened. She thought
for a moment that he must have quarrelled with Columbine, and so gone
away. When she caught sight through the window of the lovers waltzing
together, she was as horrified as Pierrot.

“Harlequin! Harlequin!” she called; “how can you be so rash? Come down
at once. Pantaloon will be here in a minute.”

Reluctant as he was to tear himself away, Harlequin knew that delay
might well be fatal; so, with one last long kiss for Columbine, he slid
down the rope, which, so soon as he was on the ground, Columbine drew
quickly through the window.

[Illustration:]

As they walked back to the inn, Violetta lectured Harlequin very
severely on his imprudence. But she might have spared her breath; for
from that day forward the rope was always let down, and Harlequin and
Columbine passed many a happy hour together. They trusted the faithful
Violetta. Nor, chide as she might, did she ever fail them.

Nevertheless, Pantaloon did find out about their meetings. One evening
Spavente, as he lay in bed wondering how much longer he had to live,
heard Harlequin and Scaramouche talking in the parlour, which was
immediately under his room. He could not make out what they were
saying, but more than once he thought he caught his own name, and this
aroused his curiosity to such a degree that at length, in spite of the
Doctor’s orders and his own fear of the consequences, he rose from his
bed, knelt down on the floor, and put his ear to a crack between the
boards.

What he heard filled him at once with rage and glee. Scaramouche was
entertaining his friend with a lively description of Pantaloon’s visits
and boasting of his own cleverness in keeping up the pretence of the
Captain’s illness; and the discovery of the trick which had been played
upon him naturally threw Spavente into a fury. But when he learned the
reason of the trick--which he very soon did, for Harlequin could not
refrain for long from singing Columbine’s praises--the Captain rubbed
his hands. Here, at last, was the chance for which he had been waiting.
Harlequin should be well paid for having given him that humiliating and
painful drubbing.

Spavente returned to his bed. Now that he knew that he had never really
been ill at all, he felt in the best of health, but it was his turn to
practise a little deception. So he waited for Pantaloon, and when the
Doctor arrived, he invented an excuse for getting Scaramouche out of
the room. Then he revealed what he had heard.

Pantaloon’s wrath knew no bounds. He grew purple in the face, and
raved and spluttered until Spavente was quite frightened. When he had
recovered himself a little, his first notion was to rush off at once
and catch Harlequin red-handed. But suddenly a new thought struck him,
and he turned to Spavente.

“Since you are not ill after all,” he said, “there will be no need for
me to visit you any more.”

“No,” said Spavente, “of course not.”

“Well, then,” said Pantaloon, “I think you might as well settle my
account now. Let me see--it will be ...”

“Stop a minute,” cried the Captain. “Your account is no affair of mine.
It was not I who called you in, and you have done nothing for me. You
had better present your account to Scaramouche.”

“As if I could get a penny out of that rogue!” cried Pantaloon.

“Then what about Harlequin?” said Spavente. “It seems that it is he who
has benefited most by your visits.”

“Would you mock me, sir?” shouted the Doctor.

“And if I did,” replied Spavente, “it would be no more than a doctor
who does not even know whether his patient is ill or not deserved!”

“That is no worse than a patient who does not know it himself,”
Pantaloon retorted.

“Well,” said Spavente, laughing rather foolishly, “perhaps we are
quits.”

“We are not quits until you have paid my fee,” said Pantaloon.

“How can I pay your fee when I have no money?” Spavente asked.

“No money!” exclaimed the Doctor in surprise. “Why--Scaramouche told me
you were a wealthy nobleman.”

“I am a nobleman, it is true,” replied Spavente, although it was not
true at all. “And by rights I should be wealthy. But, alas! there are
scoundrels in Spain as well as elsewhere.”

“It appears that they sometimes come to Italy,” said Pantaloon.

This was too much for the haughty Captain.

“What!” he cried. “Do you dare to insult Spavente, you base
apothecary?” And, springing out of bed, he caught up his sword. He felt
that he was perfectly safe in threatening one so old and decrepit as
Pantaloon.

Nor was he wrong. Even in his nightgown, the soldier, with his
bristling moustachios, his rolling eye, and his naked sword, was a
terrifying figure; and the Doctor, forgetting both his fees and his
gout, made a dash for the door. Down the stairs he fled, and out into
the street.

Violetta, busy in the kitchen and not expecting him for another half
hour at least, unfortunately did not see him go.




_Columbine’s Punishment and Harlequin’s New Plan_


Harlequin and Columbine were happily at their dancing and love-making
when Pierrot burst into the room with a look of the utmost
consternation on his long pale face.

“Fly, Harlequin!--you must fly at once!” he cried. “Pantaloon is
letting himself into the house.”

“The devil he is!” cried Harlequin; and Columbine uttered a little
shriek.

“Hush!” whispered Pierrot. “He will hear you. For love’s sake, go,
Harlequin. There is not a moment to lose.”

Harlequin sprang to the window, from which the rope by which he had
entered still hung.

“You must come with me, Columbine,” he said.

“Oh, no!” said poor Columbine. “I dare not.”

“But I will look after you, my dear,” said Harlequin.

“I know you would, Harlequin,” replied Columbine. “But I daren’t.”

They heard the front door slam, and Pantaloon heavily mounting the
stairs.

“You really must get out, Harlequin,” said Pierrot.

“Yes,” said Columbine. “Please go, my love.”

Harlequin hesitated another moment, and then, realising that he would
only make matters worse by staying, vaulted over the window-sill and
slid down the rope. As he reached the ground, Pantaloon threw open the
door.

In spite of his spectacles, the Doctor’s sight was not very good; and,
seeing Pierrot standing by Columbine’s side, he thought that he had
caught the villain whom he was after.

“Ah, so I have got you, you scoundrel!” he roared, and rushed at his
assistant with uplifted cane.

“But that is only Pierrot, Papa,” said Columbine in a faint voice.

“Why, so it is,” said Pantaloon, somewhat taken aback. Then he turned
fiercely on Pierrot again. “And what are you doing here, I should like
to know?” he cried. “You are always hanging about Columbine. It is my
belief that you aid her in her wickedness. Get back to your work, sir,
I will talk to you presently.”

Pierrot, who was as timid as a mouse, crept out of the room.

When he had gone, Pantaloon seized his daughter roughly by the arm.

“That scoundrel Harlequin has been here,” he cried. “Don’t try to
deceive me, miss--I know he has. I know all about your goings-on. How
long is it since he left you?”

Columbine, who had never told a lie in her life, did not know what to
say. So she said nothing.

“Perhaps he has not left,” said her father. “Perhaps you are hiding him
somewhere.”

He began to look into cupboards and under chairs, but of course he did
not find Harlequin. Then he looked out into the street, but he did not
see Harlequin there either; for the dancer was already half-way back to
Burattino’s. What Pantaloon did see, was the rope which Columbine had
not had a chance of pulling in.

“Ho, ho!” he cried. “So this is the road by which your lover visits
you, is it? You wicked, unprincipled girl! A rope indeed! You deserve
to be soundly whipped with the end of it.”

But it would be painful to relate all the harsh things which the
enraged Doctor said to his unhappy daughter, how he abused and stormed
at her. When he had finished, he locked her into the room, leaving her
weeping bitterly.

After a little while, she heard a light rapping on the door.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It is I--Pierrot,” came the answer in a whisper. “Don’t cry,
Columbine. It will all come right, I am sure. I will do all I can to
help you.”

“But what can you do, Pierrot?” said Columbine. “Oh, I am so miserable!
I know I shall never see Harlequin again.”

“You shall, you shall,” said Pierrot. “Indeed, I have already thought
of something. I daren’t stay to tell it you now. But trust Pierrot,
Columbine.”

“I will,” Columbine answered. “Dear Pierrot, you are very good to me.”

Pierrot sighed.

[Illustration]

That evening, when his master was shut up in his study, poring over
his books of medical lore, he slipped out of the house and ran to
Burattino’s inn.

Pierrot was afraid, indeed, that his errand might be a vain one; for it
seemed to him likely that, after the events of the morning, Harlequin
would have quitted the neighbourhood.

But Harlequin had no intention of doing so. Come what might of it,
he was determined to remain near Columbine. Besides, as Scaramouche
and Violetta had pointed out, it was very improbable that Pantaloon
would take any serious steps against him. The last thing the Doctor
would want would be that the story of the trick which had been played
upon him should become public; for that would not only make him the
laughing-stock of Venice, but put an end to all hopes of a marriage
between his daughter and so proud and particular a gentleman as Lelio.

Pierrot put his head round the door of the inn parlour, where
Scaramouche was playing to the guests and Violetta was waiting on them.
Harlequin was sitting in a corner; for the first time in his life he
did not feel inclined to dance. When he saw Pierrot beckoning, he came
to him at once.

“What news?” he asked.

“Come outside,” said Pierrot. “I want to talk to you privately.”

They went out into the dark street, and Pierrot told Harlequin how
cruelly Pantaloon was using Columbine, keeping her locked in her room
and allowing her only dry bread to eat and water to drink.

“I know quite well what his game is,” said Pierrot. “He intends to
force her into marrying Lelio.”

“She will never do that,” cried Harlequin.

“Never willingly,” Pierrot replied. “But her spirit may be broken. If
she thinks that she has lost you for good, she may fall into despair.
You must get to her again, Harlequin.”

“I mean to,” said Harlequin stoutly. “If only I could think of a way!
But I am surprised to hear you talk like this, Pierrot. I should have
thought you would have been glad to be rid of me.”

Pierrot shook his head.

“I want Columbine to be happy,” he said.

Harlequin seized him by the hand.

“What a good fellow you are!” he said warmly. “I never expected to find
a friend in you.”

“I thought harshly of you at first; and, of course, I am jealous of you
now,” said Pierrot with a sad little smile. “But I know it is only
you who will make Columbine happy: so I have no choice but to help you
if I can. And I think that perhaps I can. At least, I have a little
suggestion to make.”

“Oh, what is it?” cried Harlequin eagerly.

“Well,” said Pierrot, “of course it is out of the question for you to
come to the house, or even within sight of it, in your own person.
Pantaloon is not so short-sighted but what he would be sure to discover
you--those clothes of yours make you so conspicuous--and I saw him
loading his blunderbuss this afternoon. He is not a bad marksman,
either.”

“What do you propose that I should do, then?” Harlequin asked.

“You must disguise yourself,” said Pierrot.

“Is that all you have to suggest?” said Harlequin, in tones of
disappointment. “What would be the use, if no man is ever allowed
inside Pantaloon’s house?”

“I never thought of that,” said Pierrot.

He felt crestfallen, for he had considered his plan a very good one.
Though well-meaning, Pierrot was not very quick-witted.

“But is it really true that Pantaloon never lets any one into his
house?” said Harlequin.

“Only his patients,” replied Pierrot.

“Thanks,” said Harlequin. “I have had enough of Pantaloon’s doctoring.”

“Of course there is Lelio,” Pierrot went on. “Naturally he comes and
goes as he chooses.”

“Why--that is it,” exclaimed Harlequin. “I will disguise myself as
Lelio.”

“Oh, no!” cried Pierrot. “That would never do. What would happen if the
real Lelio came while you were there?”

“That would certainly be awkward,” Harlequin admitted. “But are you
sure that Pantaloon has no other visitors than Lelio? Do none of
Lelio’s friends ever come, for instance?”

“No,” said Pierrot, “none. Of course, Lelio always brings his servant
with him, as befits his station in life.”

“Does he?” cried Harlequin joyfully. “Then, by Venus! I will enter
Lelio’s service. Lelio’s livery shall be my passport to happiness. What
fun!”

“But how about Lelio’s present servant, Coviello?” said Pierrot.

“He must be disposed of,” Harlequin replied airily. “What sort of a
fellow is he?”

“A stupid, greedy creature,” said Pierrot, “who would do anything for
gold.”

“Then gold he shall have,” said Harlequin. “I have made plenty of gold
by my dancing, and I would give every piece of it to see Columbine
again. How can I get word with this Coviello?”

“You may find him any morning idling outside his master’s palace,” said
Pierrot. “For Lelio, like all great folk, sleeps till midday.”

Harlequin embraced Pierrot very heartily.

“You have earned my eternal gratitude,” he cried. “If any one ever
maltreats you, let me know, and, by Bacchus! he shall feel this little
wand of mine.”

“Thank you very much, Harlequin,” said Pierrot.

[Illustration]




_How Harlequin Took Service with Lelio_


Violetta was very doubtful whether Harlequin’s new scheme would be
successful, and Scaramouche tried to throw cold water on a course
of action which would rob him of the dancer’s assistance in his
performances.

“I thought you were so keen to make your fortune,” he said. “And just
as you are fairly on the road to it, you give it up for the sake of a
girl. What folly!”

But nothing could stop Harlequin from setting off, on the morning after
his conversation with Pierrot, to Lelio’s palace. He found it easily
enough, for it was one of the grandest in Venice. On the broad steps
before the great bronze doors lounged at least a dozen lackeys all
wearing Lelio’s splendid livery of blue and silver. Some of them were
asleep, some throwing dice, others bandying jests. Some were fat and
some were lean, some were tall and others short, but they all, even
the lean ones, had the comfortable look of men who live easily at the
expense of a rich and lavish lord. It was vain for Harlequin to try
to guess which of them was Coviello, so he asked one who seemed less
pre-occupied than the rest to point him out.

“Coviello?” said the man. “There he is--asleep as usual.” And he
indicated a loutish fellow who lay on his back with his eyes shut and
his mouth wide open.

Harlequin went up to him and prodded him lightly with his wand.

Coviello opened his eyes, blinked stupidly, and sat up.

“Who are you?” he said. “And what do you want?”

“A private word with you, sir, if you will so far honour me,” replied
Harlequin politely.

Coviello looked at him doubtfully.

“It will be to your advantage if you will listen to me,” said
Harlequin; and he chinked the gold in his pocket.

An expression of greed came into Coviello’s heavy eyes.

“Well,” he repeated. “What do you want?”

“Is there no place where we can talk more secretly than here?” asked
Harlequin. “What I have to say is not for every one’s ears.”

Coviello rose to his feet.

“Come this way,” he said, and led Harlequin up a narrow lane at the
side of the palace. “No one will interrupt us here--though I warn you
that if you mean mischief there are a dozen stout friends of mine
within call.”

“I mean you no mischief,” laughed Harlequin. “On the contrary, it is a
service which I propose to do you. Tell me, does Lelio pay you well?”

“Not badly, I suppose,” said Coviello grudgingly, “as things go.”

“But you have to work for your money, I warrant,” said Harlequin.

“I should think I did,” cried Coviello. “It is nothing but fetch and
carry all day long, and often all night too. It is a dog’s life, I can
tell you.”

“In short,” said Harlequin, “if you could have the pay without the
work, you would find life more to your liking.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Coviello.

“Why,” Harlequin answered, “I am not sure that I should. In fact, I
have a fancy to serve your master Lelio. Will you let me take your
place?”

Coviello gazed at him in amazement.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“What I say,” replied Harlequin. “Let me wear your clothes and do your
work, and you shall do nothing from morn to night--and have twice the
money that Lelio pays you into the bargain.”

He showed Coviello a handful of gold pieces. The lackey gazed at them
eagerly.

“But Lelio would never mistake you for me,” he said, scratching his
head.

“I should think not,” cried Harlequin, eyeing the other’s clumsy figure
with disdain. “Nor need he. I will tell him that sudden business has
called you away, and that I, your cousin, have come to take your place
during your absence.”

“What business should the likes of me have?” said Coviello.

“I will say that you have been summoned to your grandmother’s funeral,”
said Harlequin.

“But I have no grandmother living,” Coviello objected.

“Of course she is not living,” replied Harlequin, “or she could not be
having a funeral.”

Such reasoning was altogether beyond Coviello. Again he scratched his
head, looking Harlequin dubiously up and down.

“If you are to wear my clothes,” he asked at last, “do you expect me to
wear yours?”

“Certainly not,” said Harlequin decidedly. The mere idea of his
beautiful suit on Coviello’s back made him shudder. “But you shall have
a brand new suit at my expense.”

“You seem to have plenty of money,” said Coviello. “I hope it was
honestly come by.”

“Little you care about that,” retorted Harlequin, “so long as some of
it finds its way into your pocket.”

“That is true enough,” Coviello admitted.

“Then let us find a tailor’s shop,” said Harlequin.

Coviello took him to one, and there a smart new suit was purchased;
into which the delighted lackey changed on the spot, while Harlequin
donned the blue and silver livery. His own clothes he kept on
underneath it, for he felt he would hardly be Harlequin without them.
His mask he put in his pocket. “I should suppose it was the first time
any one disguised himself by _taking off_ a mask,” he thought.

“Now how am I to come to Lelio?” he asked Coviello.

“He will send for you fast enough when he wants you,” Coviello replied.
“You had best go back to the steps and wait.”

So, leaving Coviello to spend his easily earned money, Harlequin
returned to the palace. Several of the other lackeys, seeing him in
their livery, stared at him; but they were too lazy or too intent on
their own affairs to ask questions. Harlequin sat down on the bottom
step, and presently a page came to the door and shouted for Coviello.

Harlequin rose and mounted the steps.

“But you are not Coviello,” said the page.

“That is no business of yours, my lad,” said Harlequin. “Show me the
way to your master.”

He followed the page through the vast and sumptuously furnished
entrance hall, up many stairs, and along several passages. Outside a
closed door the page stopped.

“This is Lelio’s room,” said the page.

Harlequin opened the door and boldly entered. He found himself in a
beautiful bedroom, of which the walls were hung with Lelio’s colours of
blue and silver, and the ceiling was painted blue and powdered with
silver stars. At the far end of the room was a silver bed with curtains
of blue damask; in which, propped against a great pillow, wearing a
frilled nightshirt of the finest cambric, with a brightly-coloured
night-cap on his head and a little cup of steaming chocolate in his
delicate hand, reclined the most aristocratic-looking gentleman whom
Harlequin had ever seen.

[Illustration]

“Ah, Coviello!” said Lelio in a languid voice, as the dancer
approached. When he realised that it was not Coviello, he uttered an
exclamation of surprise.

Harlequin hastened to explain about Coviello’s grandmother, and how he
had come to take his place.

“Upon my soul!” cried Lelio. “You don’t mean to say that Coviello has a
grandmother? How extraordinary! I suppose the fellow will be claiming a
coat of arms next. What is your name, by the way?”

“Truffaldino, sir,” said Harlequin.

“And have you a grandmother, too?” Lelio asked.

“Certainly not, sir,” replied Harlequin promptly.

“And yet you are Coviello’s cousin,” said Lelio, looking puzzled.

“Only in a manner of speaking, sir,” said Harlequin.

“So much the better,” said Lelio, “if qualities, as they say, run in
families. For Coviello was the worst servant I ever had. Had I not been
so lazy I should have got rid of the oaf long ago. I hope you will do
better, Truffaldino.”

“It is my devoutest wish, sir,” said Harlequin, bowing low, “to give
you perfect satisfaction.”

“Well,” said Lelio, “you may as well set about it.” And he got out of
bed.

Coviello had given Harlequin some hints as to his new duties; and
the dancer, being naturally quick-witted, even on this first day
was far less at a loss than might have been expected. He dressed
Lelio and shaved him, and afterwards waited on him at breakfast; and
Lelio, liking his light touch and graceful movements after Coviello’s
clumsiness, had by the evening made up his mind to take him permanently
into his service, and to leave Coviello to mourn for his grandmother,
if he chose, for the rest of his life.




_Harlequin Sees Columbine Once More_


Harlequin waited impatiently for the day when Lelio would visit
Columbine, or send him to her with a message; but Lelio, though he
really intended to marry the Doctor’s daughter, felt it beneath his
dignity to go too often to so humble a house as Pantaloon’s. He saw
no cause to press his suit, for, coldly as Columbine always welcomed
him, he could not believe that she would refuse a husband of his rank
and elegance. He admired her the more for her reserve. In his view, a
courtship should be a slow and dignified business. Harlequin’s methods
would have deeply shocked him.

About a week after the dancer had entered his service, however, he
decided that the time was come for another visit; and he set out for
Pantaloon’s house, Harlequin walking behind him with a great bouquet of
flowers which Lelio was going to present to Columbine. Harlequin was
in high hopes of once more setting eyes on his beloved. He wondered
whether she would recognise him under his disguise. Great was his
disgust when, on arriving at their destination, Lelio entered the house
alone and left him to kick his heels in the street. He did not even
get a chance of speaking to Pierrot, to whom he had intended to make
himself known. “If this is how things are to be,” he thought, “I might
as well have stayed at Burattino’s.”

But Harlequin was not easily defeated. While he waited for Lelio,
he set his nimble wits to work; and that evening, as his master sat
yawning over his wine, he asked him whether he would like to see him
dance.

From any other of his servants, Lelio would have considered such a
suggestion a great impertinence, but “Truffaldino” was already high in
his favour. Being a true Venetian he liked, above all things, to be
amused; and Coviello’s cousin was certainly an amusing fellow.

“Can you dance, Truffaldino?” he asked.

“A little,” said Harlequin modestly.

“Go on, then,” said Lelio. “Let me see what you can do.”

What his new servant could do in the way of dancing amazed him. Since
he had jilted Isabella for Columbine, Lelio went very little into the
world, and so it chanced that he had never seen the mandoline-player
and the dancer whose performances were so popular in fashionable
Venice.

“I must confess that you dance very well, Truffaldino,” he said, taking
a pinch of snuff. “Where did you learn the art?”

“I was born dancing,” said Harlequin, “and I daresay I shall die
dancing.”

“Then I hope it will be with your feet on the ground,” laughed Lelio.

Seeing his master in so good a humour, Harlequin thought that he might
venture a little further.

“I wonder if I might take a great liberty, sir,” he said.

“I will tell you that when you have taken it,” replied Lelio. “You do
it at your own risk, remember.”

“Well, sir,” said Harlequin, “is it not possible that my dancing might
afford some entertainment to the lady whom you visited this morning?
Ladies are often very partial to dancing.”

Lelio frowned, and Harlequin feared that he had angered him. But Lelio
was not angry: he was only thinking.

“That is not a bad idea,” he said at length. “I noticed that she seemed
rather out of spirits this morning. Perhaps your dancing would divert
her. Yes, Truffaldino, you shall come with me next time I visit her.”

Harlequin had difficulty in restraining himself from showing his joy.
As for Lelio, he also was pleased; for the notion of going courting
attended by a dancer--and so good a dancer as “Truffaldino”--struck him
as extremely elegant.

Thus it was that Harlequin again saw his beautiful Columbine. He was
very much grieved to observe how pale she was and how unhappy she
looked; but he could not help being gratified by the listless air with
which she accepted Lelio’s well-turned compliments.

[Illustration:]

It was clear that at first she did not recognise her lover; but when,
at Lelio’s command, he began to dance, he saw a puzzled look come into
her face--and then she blushed--and then she trembled a little. She
knew him!

Harlequin got no chance of speaking to her alone that day. But little
by little, as his position with Lelio grew more and more privileged, he
managed to contrive means of going without his master to the Doctor’s
house. He would suggest, so tactfully that Lelio thought that the idea
was his own, that it would be a graceful thing to send a present of
sweetmeats or flowers, or even a jewel, to Columbine. And Lelio liked
always to act gracefully.

Harlequin insisted on delivering the presents into Columbine’s own
hands. He said that it was his master’s desire, and Pantaloon, so
churlish with every one else, was all complaisance to Lelio’s lightest
whim. It is true that he was usually present at the lovers’ meetings,
but one who had the honour to wear Lelio’s livery was, in the Doctor’s
eyes, a person worthy to be trusted; and when, as sometimes happened,
a patient called while the dancer was in the house, Pantaloon quite
happily left “Truffaldino” with his daughter. Pierrot, too, whom
Columbine had told who the pretended lackey really was, became quite
clever at inventing reasons to get his master out of the way.

So once more Harlequin and Columbine enjoyed some happy moments, and
the roses returned to Columbine’s cheeks. But they were very short
moments and they did not occur very often; and the lovers, who were
both more in love than ever, were far from being satisfied. Nothing,
indeed, would content them but that they should run away together--and
how were they to do that, when it was impossible to leave the house,
to draw the creaking bolts and loosen the clanking chains, without
Pantaloon hearing them?

Harlequin, on his way back to the palace, sometimes called at
Burattino’s, but though Violetta and Scaramouche were always glad to
see him, they had no new suggestions to make.

As Harlequin became better acquainted with his master’s private
affairs, however, he got to know certain things which set him thinking.
One was that Lelio, though he was as devoted to Columbine as so languid
a gentleman was capable of being, was not a little inclined to regret
his break with Isabella. A marriage between himself and the great
heiress would have been so fitting a match. Their wedding might have
been the most splendid ever seen in Venice. He did not propose to have
very much ceremony when he married Columbine; for he was afraid that
his friends would only come to laugh at him, and he did not at all
relish the notion of being laughed at.

Naturally the Lady Isabella’s name was not very often spoken in Lelio’s
presence, but when by chance it was, Harlequin noticed that his master
was far more interested than he pretended to be, and that when any one
was mentioned as paying court to her, he could scarcely conceal his
annoyance. Isabella had many suitors, though she gave them but little
encouragement.

Another thing which the observant Harlequin discovered was that,
although Lelio was acknowledged to be the finest gentleman in Venice,
there was a certain Leandro who ran him a close second. There had,
indeed, been an ardent rivalry between the two young men as to which
of them should be the leader of fashion, and though hitherto the palm
had always gone to Lelio, now that he was seen so little Leandro was
beginning to usurp his place. Lelio sometimes thought seriously of
reasserting himself, but he dare not go much into society for fear of
meeting Isabella. When he heard, however, of some new triumph of his
rival’s--some particularly delightful entertainment which he had given
or some specially exquisite suit which he had worn--he almost wished
that he had never seen the fascinating Columbine.

[Illustration]

These feelings Harlequin did all he could to foster. From his fellow
servants and the servants of the other great houses whom he met in the
taverns he heard many stories of what was happening in the fashionable
world, and such stories he would repeat to his master while he was
dressing him. Nor did they lose in the repetition.

One day, when he thought the time was ripe, Harlequin said to Lelio: “I
wonder, sir, whether you have heard the latest news.”

“What is it?” asked Lelio.

“Why, sir,” said Harlequin, in a very innocent voice, “that there is
likely soon to be a great wedding in Venice.”

“Indeed,” said Lelio, “between whom?”

“Between the Lord Leandro and the Lady Isabella,” said Harlequin.

Lelio, who was being shaved, started from his chair so violently that
he gashed his chin badly on the razor in his servant’s hand. But he was
far too excited to notice the fact, though the blood quite ruined his
beautiful shirt.

“Nonsense!” he cried. “It is impossible!”

“I only tell you what I have heard, sir,” said Harlequin. “I had it
from one of the Lord Leandro’s own servants.”

Lelio was in a fume. If Leandro and Isabella married, and their two
great houses were united, his own proud position would be gone for ever.

“You must find out more of this, Truffaldino,” he cried; and then,
realising how much beneath his dignity it was to talk in this strain to
a mere lackey, he added more calmly: “I have a special and important
reason for wishing to have certain knowledge in this matter.”

“I will do my best, sir,” said Harlequin, deftly applying a piece of
cotton-wool to his master’s chin.




_Pantaloon’s Dinner Party_


“I think I see a way out of our troubles at last, my dear,” said
Harlequin next time he was alone with Columbine.

“Oh, Harlequin!” cried Columbine. “How?”

Harlequin told her what was in his mind, and she listened with eager
attention.

“But it sounds dreadfully dangerous,” she said, when he had finished.

“Don’t you think it is worth the risk?” Harlequin asked.

“Yes, yes,” cried Columbine, “of course I do. Oh!--to be away with my
Harlequin--to have him all to myself--what happiness!”

Harlequin kissed her tenderly. When he had left her, he went to the inn
and had a long and earnest conversation with Scaramouche and Violetta.

“Good luck to you, Harlequin,” cried the innkeeper’s daughter, as he at
last took his departure. “So noble a plot deserves to succeed.”

“I suppose I must wish you good luck, too,” growled the musician, “but
I think you would have done far better to stay with me.”

Pantaloon, now that he believed that Harlequin had gone away for good,
was treating Columbine with less severity; but he was none the less
determined that she should marry Lelio, and was very vexed that she
showed as little inclination as ever to comply with his wishes. His
manner towards her, therefore, if not actually cruel, was far from
affectionate, and usually there was but little conversation between
father and daughter.

So the old Doctor was greatly surprised when that evening after supper
the girl came to him and perched herself upon his knee.

“I am afraid, Papa,” she said timidly, “that you do not think that I am
a very good daughter to you.”

Pantaloon, who was really very fond of his child, and believed that
the way he treated her was only for her good, was quite moved by this
display of affection.

“Nay, my dear,” he said, patting her hand, “except on one point you are
the best of daughters.”

“Ah!” said Columbine, “but you consider that one point the most
important of all, do you not?”

“Why, of course,” said Pantaloon. “There are few doctors’ daughters
who are sought in marriage by lords. I cannot think how you can be so
foolish as to scorn such good fortune.”

“But if I do not love him, Papa?” said Columbine.

“Love!” replied Pantaloon scornfully. “What is love compared with a
position like Lelio’s? Besides, you will come to love him in time--so
handsome and gallant a gentleman.... I hope, Columbine”, he went on,
more sternly, “that you are not still thinking of that scoundrelly
dancer?”

“Oh, no, Papa,” said Columbine, blushing. “I see now how wrongly I
behaved, and to make amends for my naughtiness, I have determined to
marry Lelio ...”

“You have?” cried Pantaloon in delight.

“... When he asks for me,” Columbine went on demurely. “He has not
asked for me yet, you know.”

“Not in so many words,” said the Doctor. “But he will soon enough, if
you will only smile on him. You are always so cold to him, and he is
far too proud to care to risk the rejection of his suit.”

“I will try to smile on him,” said Columbine meekly. “Do you not think,
Papa, that it would be a good idea to ask him to dinner? One feels so
much more friendly at dinner-time.”

“Ask Lelio to dine at my humble table!” exclaimed Pantaloon. “What a
notion! Where is my plate? What wine have I fit for him to drink? Who
would wait upon him?”

“If Lelio really loves me,” Columbine replied, “he will not mind eating
off porcelain for once in his life, while as for wine, I daresay
that Violetta, when she hears who is to be our guest, would persuade
Burattino to let us have some good wine at a cheap rate. And Pierrot
can wait at table.”

“A pretty mess he would make of it,” cried Pantaloon; but he was in
such good humour that Columbine had little difficulty in persuading him
to comply with her wish.

So Pierrot was despatched to the palace with a letter inviting Lelio
to dine at the Doctor’s house on the morrow.

Lelio laughed when he read it.

“What is the world coming to?” he cried. “Pantaloon invites me,
Lelio, to dine with him. I suppose he thinks that since his daughter
pleases me, he is my equal in rank! I see that if I marry Columbine
I shall have to pay her father to live at the other end of the
country--otherwise I shall be plagued out of my life with his
impertinences.”

At first, to Harlequin’s concern, he was for refusing the invitation.
Then it occurred to him that it would be a new and perhaps amusing
experience to dine at such a house as the Doctor’s, and he decided to
accept it. The pleasure of seeing Columbine did not seem to enter into
his consideration, but Harlequin knew that he was so much worried by
what he had heard about Leandro and Isabella that he had little thought
for anything else.

When the time came to dress his master for the dinner-party, Harlequin
presented himself with a very solemn expression on his face.

“How now, Truffaldino?” said Lelio. “What is the matter?”

“I have just heard something which I think will interest you, sir,” he
said. “The Lord Leandro has invited the Lady Isabella to accompany him
this evening in his gondola, and she has consented.”

“A gondola party?” Lelio asked.

“No, sir,” replied Harlequin. “I am told they are to be alone.”

“Good heavens!” cried Lelio. “This is too much! This must be stopped!”

“He fetches her within the half-hour,” said Harlequin.

“Then there is no time to lose,” said Lelio.

“You have not forgotten, sir,” said Harlequin, “that you dine with
Doctor Pantaloon?”

“I can’t go!” cried the excited young nobleman. “I won’t go! You must
take a message. Say--oh! say what you will. But first order my gondola
to be prepared immediately.”

[Illustration]

“Yes, sir,” said Harlequin, and he bowed and went out. When he
returned, he found his master muffled to the eyes in a great cloak and
examining his sword. He conducted him to his gondola, saw him start
down the canal in the direction of Isabella’s palace, and then hurried
back to Lelio’s room.

Harlequin changed into one of his master’s richest suits, and he, too,
donned a cloak which hid his face.

Lelio’s coach was at the door, with the coachman on the box and the
footman in attendance. Harlequin, copying his master’s languid air
to the life, got into the coach, and the coachman, who had already
received his instructions from “Truffaldino,” whipped up the horses.

As they bowled along, Harlequin took from his pocket a little phial
containing a white powder, examined it carefully, and replaced it in
his pocket.

The first thing that happened when the coach had stopped at Pantaloon’s
was an accident. As Harlequin stepped on to the street, the Doctor,
who had long been on the watch for his distinguished guest, ran from
the house with words of effusive welcome. These Harlequin acknowledged
by raising his hat with so magnificent a gesture that the brim of it
swept Pantaloon’s spectacles from his nose. Harlequin darted forward to
pick them up, but in so doing he unluckily trod on them, grinding the
glasses to a thousand atoms.

“My dear Pantaloon,” cried Harlequin, in what was not at all a bad
imitation of Lelio’s voice. “How careless of me! How intolerably
clumsy! Can you forgive me?”

“It does not matter at all,” said Pantaloon. He spoke as though the
greatest favour had been conferred on him. But for the rest of the
evening he saw very little of what was going forward.

Nevertheless, the dinner was a great success. Pantaloon was surprised
at his guest’s liveliness; for usually Lelio had not very much to say
for himself. The food, which Columbine had prepared with Violetta’s
assistance, was really excellent; the wine from Burattino’s was good
enough for Lelio’s own table; and even Pierrot, though he did spill
some soup on Lelio’s coat, at which the affable gentleman laughed
heartily, acquitted himself not nearly so ill as Pantaloon had
feared. Columbine, it is true, was almost silent, but this her father
attributed to a becoming modesty.

The Doctor was therefore in high good humour when his guest rose and,
in happily chosen words, proposed the health of his charming hostess.

“This is a toast,” he concluded, turning to Pantaloon, “to drink which
you and I must exchange our glasses--in token of the closer bond which
I hope will ere very long unite us.”

As he spoke he quickly drew the little phial from his pocket and
emptied its contents into his glass. Then, taking Pantaloon’s in
exchange, he handed the glass to his host, who, blind but beaming,
raised it aloft and drained it at a draught.

Pantaloon’s last thought was that it was his turn now to make a speech.
He tried to rise to his feet; instead of which, he fell heavily
forward, his head sunk upon the table, and so he stayed.

“Oh, Harlequin,” cried Columbine in a fright, “is he dead?”

“No,” said Harlequin, “he is only asleep. And, unless the chemist has
played me false, he will sleep for some hours to come. All the same, we
had better not delay. Are you ready, my dear?”

Columbine ran from the room. When she returned, she was cloaked and
carrying a little bag, in which she had put the few things which she
wanted to take with her into her new life.

She gazed for a moment at her father.

“Poor Papa!” she sighed, and kissed the top of his head.

Then she turned to accompany Harlequin.

Pierrot saw them out. He managed to wish them a fairly cheerful
good-bye; but as he watched them disappear into the darkness two big
tears coursed down his white cheeks.

[Illustration:]




_Concerning Lelio and Pantaloon_


There was certainly a gondola outside Isabella’s palace, and on the
palace steps a man was standing. The gondola was not Leandro’s, and the
man looked stouter than that elegant young nobleman, who prided himself
on his slimness; but he was masked, and so completely muffled in his
cloak that it was impossible to see what his figure was really like.
It was natural, too, that for the adventure on which Lelio believed
Leandro to be embarked he should not use his own smart gondola, which
every one in Venice knew. Lelio, at any rate, had no doubt that what
“Truffaldino” had told him was true; and he was surer of it than ever
when, as he approached, a woman, also cloaked and masked, stepped out
from the shadow of the palace. The two got into the gondola and entered
its cabin, and the gondolier pushed out into the stream.

Lelio had formed no definite plan of action, but he was determined to
discover whither Leandro and Isabella were going. So he told his own
gondolier to keep their craft in sight, but to stay far enough behind
it not to be observed. Then the game began.

It was a long game, and for Lelio a very wearisome one. It soon
appeared that Leandro and Isabella were going nowhere in particular.
They merely rowed up and down and in and out of the canals, apparently
without purpose. Lelio, who had not dined, grew hungrier and hungrier,
and the hungrier he grew the worse became his temper. He fingered his
sword in a way which boded very ill for Leandro.

At last, after several hours, the wandering gondola drew up quite
suddenly at a landing-stage in a little side-canal, and the two
occupants got out. Lelio was only a few moments behind, and he leaped
to land just as his quarry was moving away. He hurried after them,
crying to them in a very threatening manner to stop. He was so angry
that he was for having the matter out there and then, regardless of
consequences.

At the sound of his voice, the man and woman turned round, at the same
time removing their masks.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man politely. “Did you address us?”

Lelio was dumbfounded. Whoever they might be, they were not Leandro and
Isabella.

His first impulse was to vent his rage upon them nevertheless, but he
realised in time that to do so would make him look very ridiculous. It
was not their fault--at least he did not know that it was--that he had
been following them.

“I--I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I fear I have made a mistake.”
And without more ado he dashed back to his gondola and told the
gondolier, in a furious voice, to take him home.

Homewards, too, went Scaramouche and Violetta, so soon as their
merriment had abated sufficiently to allow them to walk.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pantaloon, having slept for about four hours, woke up. At first he did
not know where he was, but gradually, seeing the remains of the feast
on the table, the broken meats and empty glasses, he recollected the
earlier events of the evening. Then he observed Pierrot sitting in the
window, his white face made whiter by the moonlight which streamed
through the panes.

“What has happened?” asked Pantaloon.

“You have been asleep, sir,” said Pierrot.

“I know that,” replied the Doctor testily. “Where is Columbine?”

Pierrot looked at him in melancholy and frightened silence.

“Where is Columbine?” Pantaloon repeated.

“She has gone,” said Pierrot in a hollow voice.

“Gone!” cried Pantaloon. “What do you mean? Gone where?”

“I don’t know,” said Pierrot.

“You are talking nonsense,” shouted Pantaloon. “She can’t have gone.
Columbine wouldn’t do such a thing.”

But he was soon convinced that she had, for he searched every room in
the house and could find no trace of his daughter.

“The villain!” he cried, as he returned to the parlour. “To steal her
from under my very nose! I suppose he thinks that a fine gentleman like
him can treat a mere physician as he pleases. But he shall learn his
mistake, if I have to burn his palace down to teach him.”

To this Pierrot said nothing. If Pantaloon believed that it was Lelio
who had carried Columbine away, so much the better. It would make the
lovers’ chance of escape all the surer.

His silence, however, did not save his own skin. For suddenly the
infuriated Doctor turned upon his pale assistant.

“You are in this, too,” he stormed. “I know you are, you scoundrel. You
helped that dancing rascal to play his tricks, and now you have helped
Lelio. Out of my house, you wretch! Never let me see your moon-face
again!”

And with kicks and cuffs of surprising vigour for one so old and
infirm, he drove Pierrot out of the room, out of the house and into the
street, and slammed the door against him.

[Illustration]

When he had recovered a little from his bewilderment, Pierrot made his
way to Burattino’s. He arrived there at the same moment as Scaramouche
and Violetta, who were still laughing over the dance which they had led
Lelio. They took him into the inn, and while Violetta plastered his
broken head, he told them how matters had gone at Pantaloon’s dinner
party.

Violetta clapped her hands when she heard that Harlequin and Columbine
had got safely away.

“We did our part well, too, didn’t we, Scaramouche?” she said.

“Not at all badly, my dear,” replied the musician. “But it was hungry
and thirsty work.”

Violetta took the hint, and laid the table for supper.

“As for you, Pierrot,” she said, “you must stay here with us. You shall
have Harlequin’s bed.”

“Yes,” said Scaramouche, “and you shall do Harlequin’s work. Where he
danced, you shall sing; and you shall make that fortune which he so
foolishly abandoned.”

“I feel as though I could never sing again,” said Pierrot.

“Nonsense!” said Scaramouche, and filled his glass for him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first thing next morning Pantaloon went straight to Lelio’s palace.
Lelio, of course, was still in bed, but the Doctor was so insistent in
his demands to see him that at last a message was taken up to him.

“Let him come,” said Lelio indifferently. He wondered sleepily what the
old gentleman wanted. Not that it mattered very much. After the way his
dignity had been upset on the previous night, nothing seemed to matter
very much to Lelio.

Pantaloon came striding to his bedside.

“Give me my daughter,” he said in a threatening voice.

“My good fellow, what on earth are you talking about?” said Lelio,
sitting up. “I haven’t got your daughter.”

“You can’t deceive me, sir,” shouted Pantaloon.

“You are making a great deal of noise,” said Lelio.

“Who wouldn’t make a noise,” Pantaloon retorted, “when his daughter had
been stolen by his own guest after he himself had been drugged at his
own table? For shame, sir! It was a trick unworthy of a nobleman.”

“No doubt,” said Lelio calmly. “But perhaps you would explain yourself
a little more clearly.”

“It strikes me that it is your business to explain,” said the Doctor.
“Do you deny my charge?”

“Most certainly,” Lelio replied.

“I suppose you will deny that you dined with me last night,” Pantaloon
sneered.

“Why!” exclaimed Lelio. “Are you in your dotage, Pantaloon? Don’t you
remember that I sent you a message to express my regret that important
business”--here Lelio blushed--“prevented me from having that pleasure?
Didn’t Truffaldino give you that message?”

“He did not,” said Pantaloon. “And what is more, you did dine with me
last night, my Lord Lelio.”

“I give you my word of honour I did nothing of the kind,” said Lelio
haughtily.

Pantaloon was silent. Who was he to doubt the word of honour of a
nobleman?

“There is evidently some mystery here,” Lelio went on. “Perhaps
Truffaldino can throw light upon it. Which reminds me, I have seen
nothing of the fellow since I came home last night.”

As a matter of fact, Lelio had been so put out of countenance by his
misadventure that he had not cared to face even his servant. Contrary
to his custom, therefore, he had not sent for him but, for the first
time in his life, had undressed and gone to bed without assistance.

He rang the bell by his bedside, and a page appeared.

“Send Truffaldino,” said Lelio.

The page went away, but no Truffaldino came. Lelio was getting very
impatient when the boy returned to say that the lackey was nowhere to
be found.

“This is very strange,” said Lelio; and then it occurred to him that
it was Truffaldino who had told him the story which had led to his
humiliating wild-goose chase. “I am afraid there is something queer
about that fellow,” he added. “I suppose I ought to have found out more
about him when I took him into my service.” He turned to the page. “Do
you happen to know where Coviello is?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said the boy, “but I do not think it would be very hard to
find him. He will be in some tavern or other, if I know Coviello.”

“Visit every tavern in Venice if necessary,” said Lelio, “but bring him
to me. If you will wait,” he said to Pantaloon, “perhaps we may get an
explanation of this extraordinary occurrence.”

It was not so very long before the page came back, and behind him
slouched Coviello. Nor was it very long before Lelio had drawn from his
old lackey an account of how he had been bribed to give his place and
his livery to a stranger.

“And you did not bury your grandmother after all?” Lelio asked.

“I never had a grandmother,” said Coviello.

“I thought not,” said Lelio.

“I hope you will forgive me, sir,” said Coviello, “and take me back
into your service.”

“Well,” said Lelio, “since Truffaldino has apparently gone for good, I
suppose I might as well. You are a bad servant, but at least you know
my ways. You had better get into your livery again.”

“Truffaldino had my livery,” said Coviello.

“So he had, the scamp!” said Lelio. “You will have to have a new one.
Are those Truffaldino’s clothes that you are wearing?”

“No, sir,” replied Coviello. “He bought them for me. He was wearing
the funniest clothes--as tight as his skin and all the colours of the
rainbow.”

At this Pantaloon uttered such a cry that Lelio nearly jumped out of
bed.

“Whatever is the matter now?” he asked.

“He has got her after all!” cried Pantaloon, wringing his hands. “The
villain! The scoundrel! Oh, why didn’t I guess?”

“Guess what?” said Lelio.

“That Truffaldino was Harlequin,” wailed the Doctor; and, though he
was so enraged that he could hardly speak coherently, he poured into
Lelio’s ears the tale of Harlequin’s wickedness.

“You seem to have been nicely tricked, my friend,” said Lelio, when he
had finished.

“You too,” cried Pantaloon.

Lelio raised his eyebrows. He could not deny that he had been tricked,
but to be coupled with Pantaloon did not please him at all.

“There is no time to lose,” the Doctor went on. “We must rescue
Columbine from your rival’s clutches.”

“My rival!” exclaimed Lelio. “Thank you. I pretend to no rivalry with
dancers and lackeys.”

“But surely,” cried Pantaloon in surprise, “you are going to help me to
find Columbine?”

“I really shouldn’t dream of interfering so far in your family
affairs,” said Lelio coldly. And very deliberately he lay down in his
bed again and turned his back on the Doctor.

Pantaloon gazed at him for a moment in speechless indignation, and then
stamped out of the room.

“This is what comes of mixing with the lower classes,” Lelio murmured,
as he heard the door slam behind the old gentleman whom less than
twenty-four hours ago he had regarded as his future father-in-law. “I
might have known that a girl of Columbine’s birth could not be worthy
of me.... But she was very charming,” he sighed.

Presently he raised himself on his elbow and called to Coviello, who
was still waiting his pleasure.

“Dress me, Coviello,” he said, “and dress me very carefully. I have an
important visit to pay.”




_The Married Life of Harlequin and Columbine_


The very first thing that Harlequin did when he and Columbine were
fairly out of Venice was to strip off Lelio’s grand clothes and throw
them into a ditch. Seeing him once more in the well-known suit of many
colours Columbine laughed for joy.

“Now you are more like my Harlequin,” she exclaimed.

Harlequin put on his mask and brandished his wand, which had been
concealed in the folds of Lelio’s cloak.

“Now you are really and truly my Harlequin,” cried Columbine, and
floated into his arms.

They walked on through the moonlit night and in the morning came to a
village. Having broken their fast at the inn, they sought the priest,
who married them in the little village church.

Then they continued their journey, though they minded but little
whither they went. They were quite content to walk side by side and
love one another. Sometimes they stopped to dance, and sometimes they
paused to kiss. By evening they found themselves in an orange grove,
and there they rested.

When Columbine awoke, she saw that Harlequin was busy carving something
on the trunk of the tree under which they had slept. She rose and
looked over his shoulder, and this is what she read.

    Dear orange tree, whose leafy tent
      Has served our love for hiding-place,
      Take, and let never Time deface,
    These lines, a lover’s testament.

    And say to all who wend their way,
      Happy and idle, down this glade:
    If pleasure had the power to slay,
      I should have died beneath thy shade.

“Oh, Harlequin,” said Columbine, “how beautiful! I never guessed that
you were a poet.”

“I was not, until you made me one,” said Harlequin, kissing her.

Their wandering honeymoon lasted for several weeks. Sometimes they
slept in the open, sometimes at inns, and when they needed money they
had only to dance for it.

It was a jolly life, and they were both very happy, but one day
Columbine said to her husband: “Harlequin, I should like to see your
home. Won’t you take me there? I am sure your parents must have
forgiven you by now.”

“Whether they have or not,” said Harlequin, “they will certainly do so
when they see what a beautiful wife I have married.”

So they turned their steps towards Bergamo, where they arrived after
two or three days. As they walked through the streets, Harlequin
pointed out to Columbine, who was, of course, very much interested, the
scenes of his boyish exploits. When they reached the shop, Harlequin
was surprised to see that it was twice as big as it had been when he
left it. One half was still filled with fruit, while the other was
filled with flowers most tastefully arranged.

“That is my mother’s doing, I know,” he said. “And there she is
herself.”

Skipping into the shop, he took his mother into his arms.

“Oh, my precious Harlequin!” she cried, when she had a little recovered
from her surprise. “You have come back at last.”

She was too much delighted to utter a single word of reproach for his
long truancy.

When she saw Columbine, and learned that the lovely girl was
Harlequin’s wife, she was more delighted than ever: and Columbine loved
her at once, for she was quite as charming, and almost as pretty, as
when she had married the fruit-seller.

“But where is my father?” Harlequin asked.

“Alas!” replied his mother, “your poor father is dead.”

“Dead!” cried Harlequin; and “Oh dear!” murmured Columbine.

“I hope it was not my running away that killed him,” said Harlequin.

“No,” said his mother. “Of course he was very angry about that, but I
think he was really glad to be rid of so disgraceful a son”--and she
smiled at Harlequin as though she did not consider him in the least
disgraceful. “It was this way,” she continued. “Having become such an
important person in Bergamo, he had to go to a great many banquets. As
you will remember, Harlequin, he was always a very full-blooded man;
and in the end an apoplexy carried him off.”

The widow sighed, for she had been very fond of the fruit-seller; but
with Harlequin home again, she could not feel sad for long.

“I shall give up the shop to you, Harlequin,” she said presently. “It
will keep you out of mischief. Besides, I am getting old.”

She did not look at all old, but Harlequin was quite willing to mind
the shop or do anything else, so long as Columbine was with him.
So he sold the fruit, and Columbine the flowers, and they drove a
brisker trade than even the old fruit-seller had done. The beauty of
Harlequin’s wife was soon the talk of Bergamo, and people came to buy
just for the sake of looking at her. In the evening, when the shop was
shut, Harlequin and Columbine used to dance, and very often the widow
would join them. She danced as delightfully as ever.

During the day, she sewed alternately at a little patchwork suit and a
little frilled white dress. In due course both were needed.

One morning, when Harlequin was arranging his fruit, he heard the sound
of a mandoline coming from down the street.

“There is only one man in all Italy who can play like that,” he cried,
and, dropping his basket of apples, he ran as fast as he could in the
direction of the music.

In a minute he was back again, and with him was Scaramouche, plump and
merry as of old. Columbine welcomed the musician warmly, and asked him
eagerly for news of Venice.

“Why, my dear,” said Scaramouche, “many things have happened there
since you ran away. But what will interest you most, I expect, is that
there have been two weddings--of both of which your departure was the
cause. For neither of the bridegrooms would have looked elsewhere had
Columbine’s bright eyes still been there to draw their gaze.”

Columbine blushed.

“The marriage of Lelio and Isabella,” Scaramouche proceeded, “was a
very magnificent affair indeed. The other was not so gorgeous, but it
was merry enough. I saw to that.”

“Whose marriage do you mean?” Columbine asked. “Surely not Pierrot’s?”

“Yes, Pierrot’s,” replied Scaramouche.

“Pierrot is never married!” exclaimed Harlequin.

“He is, though,” said Scaramouche. “And married to Violetta. I myself
opposed the notion at first. For Pierrot sings very nicely, and our
performances together were becoming as popular as yours and mine
used to be. And I knew that, once married, he would be lost to me.
But Violetta insisted that he needed a wife to look after him--and
Violetta, as you know, is a young woman of determined character.”

[Illustration]

“Are they happy?” asked Columbine.

“The happiest couple in the world, by all appearances,” said
Scaramouche.

“Except one,” said Harlequin, and again Columbine blushed.

“Of course I should have excepted present company,” laughed
Scaramouche. “But, really, they are most devoted. Indeed, I got quite
tired of their billing and cooing. I felt out of it. That is why I am
on the road again.”

“And have you any news of my father?” Columbine asked.

“No,” said Scaramouche, “none. He left Venice to look for you, the very
day after your flight, and nothing has been heard of him since.”

“Poor Papa!” said Columbine, sighing. “I hope no evil has befallen him.
I wish I could see him again.” This was perfectly true, for in her
happiness she had quite forgotten Pantaloon’s unkindness and remembered
only that he was her father.

It was not so very long before her wish was fulfilled. All this time
Pantaloon had been searching for his daughter through the length and
breadth of Italy, and at last he came to Bergamo. Riding on his donkey,
he arrived at the shop, looking so old and tired that Columbine cried
when she saw him. As for the Doctor, he was so glad to have found
his daughter again that he never even thought of saying the harsh
things which he had intended to say to her; nor, seeing Columbine
so prosperous and contented, could he do anything else but forgive
Harlequin on the spot.

Thenceforth Pantaloon lived above the fruit shop, where Columbine and
Harlequin’s mother looked after him. He spent most of his time playing
with his grandchildren, and his only quarrel with his son-in-law was
that he was never allowed to give them physic.


FINIS

[Illustration:]

[Illustration:]

[Illustration:]



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