Part 3

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

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

“Have you any pain?” asked the Doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

“Ugh!” he said.

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

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

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

“It aches terribly,” said Harlequin.

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

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

“What is that?” Pantaloon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” asked Harlequin sharply.

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

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

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

[Illustration]

_Violetta Sets Her Wits to Work_

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

“Nowhere in particular,” said Harlequin carelessly.

Violetta laughed.

[Illustration]

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

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

“Did you, Harlequin?” Violetta asked.

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

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

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

“Do tell us what happened,” cried Violetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You pity everybody,” said Harlequin rather shortly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But can we?” Harlequin asked.

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

“Of course,” said Harlequin.

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

“That ought to be easy,” said Harlequin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration:]

_Violetta Plots and Columbine Wonders_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Violetta had suddenly uttered a desperate groan.

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

“She is fainting,” said Pierrot.

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

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

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

At that Violetta gave forth a shriek of horror.

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

Violetta only groaned worse than ever.

“I must undo them,” said Pantaloon.

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

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

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

“What is to be done?” cried Pantaloon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have not been long,” said Pantaloon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” cried Columbine.

“I only wondered,” said Pierrot.

[Illustration]

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

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

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

“What did you see?” she asked.

Pierrot smiled.

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

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

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

“But what _did_ you see?” Columbine repeated.

Again Pierrot only smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Columbine!” said Pierrot, shocked.

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

“And Lelio,” Pierrot put in.

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

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

“It’s a shame,” cried Columbine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cruel Columbine!” sighed Pierrot.

Columbine pirouetted round the room.

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

“You know I do,” cried Pierrot.

“Then will you do something for me?”

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

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

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

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

“I promise,” said Pierrot.

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

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

[Illustration]

_Harlequin’s Opportunity_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But he will come back,” said Scaramouche.

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

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

“Columbine will find one,” said Violetta.

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

Scaramouche strolled across to his table.

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

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

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

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

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

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