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?”