Part 4

“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.”

[Illustration]

_Pierrot Sings to Columbine_

“Not that way, stupid,” said Violetta, as Harlequin, with one last look back towards Columbine’s window, started to take the usual road to the inn. “We should run straight into Pantaloon.”

She led him up a side street, and as they made their roundabout way homewards, gave him an account of the Doctor’s interview with Spavente, to which she had listened through the keyhole.

“It really was very funny,” she said. Pantaloon had kept asking Spavente what was the matter with him, and Spavente, of course, had been unable to say. But Scaramouche had kept suggesting all sorts of aches and pains, which no sooner had he mentioned than Spavente was quite sure that he felt them. In the end, Pantaloon had come to the conclusion that the Captain was very ill indeed, and had ordered him to stay in bed until his next visit.

“But I don’t believe you are listening,” said Violetta crossly.

“I am, Violetta, I am,” protested Harlequin, who, as a matter of fact, had not been listening very closely, for his mind kept wandering away to Columbine. “You said something about Pantaloon’s next visit, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Violetta. “He is going to call on Spavente again to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, how splendid!” Harlequin cried. He threw his wand high into the air and neatly caught it as it fell. “I shall be able to go to see Columbine again.”

“Yes,” said Violetta, “and I shouldn’t be surprised if you were able to do so every day for a week at least. You see, Scaramouche told Pantaloon that Spavente was a nobleman in his own country, and had a great estate there. So, of course, the old villain won’t let him get better in a hurry. He looks forward to sending in a nice long bill. I hope he may get it paid!”

“I’ll pay it myself, as a thank-offering for my good fortune,” cried Harlequin. “A week! Why, anything may happen in a week.”

“A good deal has happened in a morning, I fancy,” said Violetta. “You have won Columbine already, Harlequin.”

“Do you really think so?” cried Harlequin. “Oh, Violetta, how wonderful! The mere thought makes me want to dance for joy. Let us dance the rest of the way home, Violetta.”

“No, thank you,” said Violetta shortly. “I don’t feel inclined to dance.”

Harlequin looked at her in surprise.

* * * * *

So soon as Harlequin was out of sight, and Columbine, still blushing, had left the window, Pierrot entered her room. He gazed at Columbine reproachfully out of his big, sad eyes.

“I was watching, too,” he said. “Downstairs.”

“Indeed!” said Columbine, as calmly as she could. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“Enjoyed myself!” exclaimed Pierrot. “As if I could, with that fellow trying to dance the heart out of your body.”

“What nonsense you talk, Pierrot!” Columbine cried.

[Illustration]

“I wish it was nonsense,” said Pierrot. “He was not only trying, but by the colour of your cheeks I am rather inclined to think that he succeeded.”

Columbine stamped her foot.

“You are very impertinent,” she cried, in the prettiest of rages.

“It is all for your good, my dear,” said Pierrot.

Columbine was too angry for words.

“Do you know who the fellow is?” Pierrot asked her.

Columbine did not reply.

“There,” said Pierrot, “you talk out of the window with a man about whom you know nothing. I am surprised at you, Columbine.”

“I do know something about him,” said Columbine defiantly. “I know his name, anyway.”

“And a queer, outlandish name it is,” Pierrot retorted. “No one with a name like that could possibly be up to any good. Then look at his extraordinary clothes. And why, I should like to know, does he wear a mask?”

“I think his clothes are beautiful,” said Columbine, “and his mask makes him all the more interesting.”

“He would have no cause to wear it if he were an honest man,” said Pierrot.

“I believe _you_ know something about him, Pierrot,” cried Columbine.

“Nothing to his credit,” Pierrot replied, and he told her how Harlequin had come to Pantaloon shamming sick, and how he had asked for Columbine to cure his headache.

Columbine found this extremely thrilling. Evidently, Harlequin had wanted to make her acquaintance very much indeed.

“But how did he know about me?” she wondered.

“He must have seen you passing Burattino’s,” said Pierrot. “He is living there.”

“Living at Burattino’s?” cried Columbine. “So that was why Violetta----” She stopped in confusion.

“Ah, ha!” said Pierrot. “So Violetta did bring you a message, did she? The minx! I suppose she was shamming, too. And it was that old rogue Scaramouche who fetched your father away this morning. He is hand in glove with this Harlequin. Why, the whole thing is clearly a plot. Oh, Columbine, be careful!”

“But it is so exciting,” said Columbine.

“It will be exciting enough when your father finds out,” said Pierrot.

“He must never find out,” said Columbine in a frightened voice. “You won’t tell him, will you, Pierrot? Remember your promise.”

“Yes,” said Pierrot slowly. “I have not forgotten it. But I am so afraid, Columbine.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, you goose,” laughed Columbine. “I am not afraid. I think I am very happy.”

“I wish I could be,” said Pierrot mournfully.

“I wish you would try to look a little more cheerful, any way,” said Columbine. “Sing me something. Haven’t you made any new songs lately?”

“Yes,” Pierrot said. “I made one last week. I don’t suppose you will like it.”

“I can’t tell that till I have heard it, can I?” said Columbine. “Sing it to me.”

So in his melancholy voice, to a melancholy, wandering tune, Pierrot sang his song:

Blue shadows everywhere Fuse the foliage into fairy walls-- A dusky curtain, which falls Between us and all real things. Some one sings Somewhere a plaintive air, Plucking lightly the while from a mandoline’s strings Delicate melodies.

Nearer, among the trees, A shimmer of white and pink, A dryad in silk and lace: It is Clotilde, I think, Though I cannot see her face, Which is turned away Where some one is saying the things she loves to hear.

Once it was I who whispered thus in her ear. Last year? Or yesterday? No days nor years are here-- Only late afternoon, Where Clotilde and a lover play And wait for the moon.

Pierrot’s voice trailed away into silence.

“Who is Clotilde?” Columbine asked, a little jealously.

“A dream lady,” said Pierrot.

“What a strange boy you are, Pierrot!” said Columbine. “And what strange songs you make! You will have to make a merrier one for my wedding with Harlequin.”

“Oh, don’t talk of such a thing,” cried Pierrot.

At that moment Pantaloon’s raucous voice was heard calling up the stairs for his assistant.

[Illustration]

_Captain Spavente Makes Mischief_

Pantaloon found Spavente’s illness very puzzling. Usually all he had to do was to tell his patient in long words what the patient had told him in short words, concoct a mixture from his bottles, and pocket his fee. But Spavente could only tell him what Scaramouche suggested, and Scaramouche’s suggestions were so astonishing, and varied so from day to day, that the poor Doctor was quite bewildered. He felt that even if he mixed together the contents of all the bottles on his shelves, the concoction would hardly meet so complicated a case. He continued, however, to visit the Captain every morning, gloating over the thought of the bill which was piling up and enjoying the glass of wine which that amiable girl Violetta never forgot to bring him.

And every morning Harlequin danced outside Columbine’s window, while she danced behind it; though, as the days went on, they spent less and less of their precious time in dancing, and more and more in talking. They found that they had a great deal to say to one another.

Pierrot, watching from his lower window (unnoticed by Harlequin), grew more and more anxious.

Harlequin never ceased trying to persuade Columbine to let down a rope to him. For several days she only shook her golden head, but at last she yielded to his entreaties, and Pierrot, leaning out and looking upwards, saw the dancer’s many-coloured legs disappear into the room above. He cast up his eyes and threw up his hands in despair.

Harlequin took Columbine in his arms.

“Oh, you lovely child!” he said.

Then he kissed her, and it was quite a different kiss from any that he had given to Violetta or the girls in Bergamo.

“I love you, Columbine,” he said.

“And I love you, Harlequin,” said Columbine.

After a while they began to dance together, and never had either of them so much enjoyed dancing, or danced so beautifully, before.

Violetta, coming as usual to warn Harlequin of Pantaloon’s return, and not seeing him anywhere, wondered what had happened. She thought for a moment that he must have quarrelled with Columbine, and so gone away. When she caught sight through the window of the lovers waltzing together, she was as horrified as Pierrot.

“Harlequin! Harlequin!” she called; “how can you be so rash? Come down at once. Pantaloon will be here in a minute.”

Reluctant as he was to tear himself away, Harlequin knew that delay might well be fatal; so, with one last long kiss for Columbine, he slid down the rope, which, so soon as he was on the ground, Columbine drew quickly through the window.

[Illustration:]

As they walked back to the inn, Violetta lectured Harlequin very severely on his imprudence. But she might have spared her breath; for from that day forward the rope was always let down, and Harlequin and Columbine passed many a happy hour together. They trusted the faithful Violetta. Nor, chide as she might, did she ever fail them.

Nevertheless, Pantaloon did find out about their meetings. One evening Spavente, as he lay in bed wondering how much longer he had to live, heard Harlequin and Scaramouche talking in the parlour, which was immediately under his room. He could not make out what they were saying, but more than once he thought he caught his own name, and this aroused his curiosity to such a degree that at length, in spite of the Doctor’s orders and his own fear of the consequences, he rose from his bed, knelt down on the floor, and put his ear to a crack between the boards.

What he heard filled him at once with rage and glee. Scaramouche was entertaining his friend with a lively description of Pantaloon’s visits and boasting of his own cleverness in keeping up the pretence of the Captain’s illness; and the discovery of the trick which had been played upon him naturally threw Spavente into a fury. But when he learned the reason of the trick--which he very soon did, for Harlequin could not refrain for long from singing Columbine’s praises--the Captain rubbed his hands. Here, at last, was the chance for which he had been waiting. Harlequin should be well paid for having given him that humiliating and painful drubbing.

Spavente returned to his bed. Now that he knew that he had never really been ill at all, he felt in the best of health, but it was his turn to practise a little deception. So he waited for Pantaloon, and when the Doctor arrived, he invented an excuse for getting Scaramouche out of the room. Then he revealed what he had heard.

Pantaloon’s wrath knew no bounds. He grew purple in the face, and raved and spluttered until Spavente was quite frightened. When he had recovered himself a little, his first notion was to rush off at once and catch Harlequin red-handed. But suddenly a new thought struck him, and he turned to Spavente.

“Since you are not ill after all,” he said, “there will be no need for me to visit you any more.”

“No,” said Spavente, “of course not.”

“Well, then,” said Pantaloon, “I think you might as well settle my account now. Let me see--it will be ...”

“Stop a minute,” cried the Captain. “Your account is no affair of mine. It was not I who called you in, and you have done nothing for me. You had better present your account to Scaramouche.”

“As if I could get a penny out of that rogue!” cried Pantaloon.

“Then what about Harlequin?” said Spavente. “It seems that it is he who has benefited most by your visits.”

“Would you mock me, sir?” shouted the Doctor.

“And if I did,” replied Spavente, “it would be no more than a doctor who does not even know whether his patient is ill or not deserved!”

“That is no worse than a patient who does not know it himself,” Pantaloon retorted.

“Well,” said Spavente, laughing rather foolishly, “perhaps we are quits.”

“We are not quits until you have paid my fee,” said Pantaloon.

“How can I pay your fee when I have no money?” Spavente asked.

“No money!” exclaimed the Doctor in surprise. “Why--Scaramouche told me you were a wealthy nobleman.”

“I am a nobleman, it is true,” replied Spavente, although it was not true at all. “And by rights I should be wealthy. But, alas! there are scoundrels in Spain as well as elsewhere.”

“It appears that they sometimes come to Italy,” said Pantaloon.

This was too much for the haughty Captain.

“What!” he cried. “Do you dare to insult Spavente, you base apothecary?” And, springing out of bed, he caught up his sword. He felt that he was perfectly safe in threatening one so old and decrepit as Pantaloon.

Nor was he wrong. Even in his nightgown, the soldier, with his bristling moustachios, his rolling eye, and his naked sword, was a terrifying figure; and the Doctor, forgetting both his fees and his gout, made a dash for the door. Down the stairs he fled, and out into the street.

Violetta, busy in the kitchen and not expecting him for another half hour at least, unfortunately did not see him go.

_Columbine’s Punishment and Harlequin’s New Plan_

Harlequin and Columbine were happily at their dancing and love-making when Pierrot burst into the room with a look of the utmost consternation on his long pale face.

“Fly, Harlequin!--you must fly at once!” he cried. “Pantaloon is letting himself into the house.”

“The devil he is!” cried Harlequin; and Columbine uttered a little shriek.

“Hush!” whispered Pierrot. “He will hear you. For love’s sake, go, Harlequin. There is not a moment to lose.”

Harlequin sprang to the window, from which the rope by which he had entered still hung.

“You must come with me, Columbine,” he said.

“Oh, no!” said poor Columbine. “I dare not.”

“But I will look after you, my dear,” said Harlequin.

“I know you would, Harlequin,” replied Columbine. “But I daren’t.”

They heard the front door slam, and Pantaloon heavily mounting the stairs.

“You really must get out, Harlequin,” said Pierrot.

“Yes,” said Columbine. “Please go, my love.”

Harlequin hesitated another moment, and then, realising that he would only make matters worse by staying, vaulted over the window-sill and slid down the rope. As he reached the ground, Pantaloon threw open the door.

In spite of his spectacles, the Doctor’s sight was not very good; and, seeing Pierrot standing by Columbine’s side, he thought that he had caught the villain whom he was after.

“Ah, so I have got you, you scoundrel!” he roared, and rushed at his assistant with uplifted cane.

“But that is only Pierrot, Papa,” said Columbine in a faint voice.

“Why, so it is,” said Pantaloon, somewhat taken aback. Then he turned fiercely on Pierrot again. “And what are you doing here, I should like to know?” he cried. “You are always hanging about Columbine. It is my belief that you aid her in her wickedness. Get back to your work, sir, I will talk to you presently.”

Pierrot, who was as timid as a mouse, crept out of the room.

When he had gone, Pantaloon seized his daughter roughly by the arm.

“That scoundrel Harlequin has been here,” he cried. “Don’t try to deceive me, miss--I know he has. I know all about your goings-on. How long is it since he left you?”

Columbine, who had never told a lie in her life, did not know what to say. So she said nothing.

“Perhaps he has not left,” said her father. “Perhaps you are hiding him somewhere.”

He began to look into cupboards and under chairs, but of course he did not find Harlequin. Then he looked out into the street, but he did not see Harlequin there either; for the dancer was already half-way back to Burattino’s. What Pantaloon did see, was the rope which Columbine had not had a chance of pulling in.

“Ho, ho!” he cried. “So this is the road by which your lover visits you, is it? You wicked, unprincipled girl! A rope indeed! You deserve to be soundly whipped with the end of it.”

But it would be painful to relate all the harsh things which the enraged Doctor said to his unhappy daughter, how he abused and stormed at her. When he had finished, he locked her into the room, leaving her weeping bitterly.

After a little while, she heard a light rapping on the door.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It is I--Pierrot,” came the answer in a whisper. “Don’t cry, Columbine. It will all come right, I am sure. I will do all I can to help you.”

“But what can you do, Pierrot?” said Columbine. “Oh, I am so miserable! I know I shall never see Harlequin again.”