Part 2

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

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

Scaramouche’s only answer was a snore.

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

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

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

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

“Did you like your dinner?” she asked.

“I never ate a better,” cried Harlequin.

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

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

“They are all I want,” said Violetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violetta turned angrily away.

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violetta clapped her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

_The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of them asked him why he wore a mask.

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

“You are young, Harlequin,” said Scaramouche.

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

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

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

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

So Harlequin asked Violetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violetta laughed, and shook her pretty head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Poor Columbine!” said Harlequin.

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

And she flung her arms round his neck.

_How Harlequin First Saw Columbine_

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

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

“What is it?” he asked.

“Pantaloon and Columbine are passing.”

Harlequin hurried to the window.

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

Violetta laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And simply hate to pay her washing bills,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

_Harlequin Visits the Doctor_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presently Pierrot opened the door again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor smiled, or at any rate grinned.

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

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

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

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