Chapter II: Part 2

“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.

_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.

“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.

“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.

_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.”

_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.

“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.

_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.

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.

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.

_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.