Chapter I: Part 1

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THE ADVENTURES OF HARLEQUIN

BY

FRANCIS BICKLEY

WITH DECORATIONS BY

JOHN AUSTEN

1923 SELWYN & BLOUNT LTD YORK BLDS ADELPHI LONDON

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

_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

_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.

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.

_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.

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.

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.

_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?”

“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.

“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.”

“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.

_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.

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?”

“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.

“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.

_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.

“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.

_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.

“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.”