The adventures of Harlequin
Date: 2025-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The adventures of Harlequin

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The adventures of Harlequin

Author: Francis Bickley

Illustrator: John Austen

Release date: November 2, 2025 [eBook #77170]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Selwyn & Blount Ltd, 1923

Credits: deaurider and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF HARLEQUIN ***

THE ADVENTURES OF HARLEQUIN

BY

FRANCIS BICKLEY

WITH DECORATIONS BY

JOHN AUSTEN

1923 SELWYN & BLOUNT LTD
YORK BLDS ADELPHI LONDON

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

Contents

How Harlequin Came to be Born | 11
Why Harlequin Ran Away from Home | 15
Harlequin Meets Scaramouche | 20
At Burattino’s Inn | 25
The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment | 33
How Harlequin First Saw Columbine | 40
Harlequin Visits the Doctor | 44
Violetta Sets her Wits to Work | 49
Violetta Plots and Columbine Wonders | 54
Harlequin’s Opportunity | 63
Pierrot Sings to Columbine | 69
Captain Spavente Makes Mischief | 75
Columbine’s Punishment and Harlequin’s New Plan | 80
How Harlequin took Service with Lelio | 87
Harlequin Sees Columbine Once More | 92
Pantaloon’s Dinner Party | 99
Concerning Lelio and Pantaloon | 106
The Married Life of Harlequin and Columbine | 115

How Harlequin Came to be Born

At Bergamo, between the Alps and the Lombard Plain, there was once a fruit-seller. He was a prosperous man, for all the nobility and gentry of the town bought their fruit from him; and he was a portly, comfortable man, rosy as one of his own ripe apples. This, some folk said, was because he had never married.

But one day he noticed a girl, a mere slip of a girl, but very pretty, with black hair and laughing black eyes, who stood looking at the fruit in his shop.

“What would you like, miss?” he asked.

“Nothing, thank you, sir,” said the girl. “I only want to look. They are so lovely.”

“Oh! very well,” said the fruit-seller. “There is no charge for looking.”

Presently the girl went away, with what sounded like a little sigh of regret.

Next day she came again, and the fruit-seller, who had a kind heart and thought that perhaps the girl was too poor to buy anything, gave her an orange and an apple. But instead of eating them, she carried them away with her, holding one in each hand and gazing at them lovingly.

That night the fruit-seller could not sleep for thinking of the girl. Nor could he the next.

“This is nonsense,” he said; but still he lay awake.

“I wonder what is the matter with me?” he said.

For answer there appeared against the darkness a vision of the girl’s pretty little face, with its great black eyes and lips like the most delicious sort of cherries.

The fruit-seller did not believe in wasting time.

“You seem to be very fond of fruit,” he said, when the girl arrived as usual on the following morning.

“I am,” she answered. “I love them better than anything in the world.”

“But only to look at? Don’t you ever eat them?”

“No,” she said. “They are too beautiful.”

“Then what do you live on?”

“Honey, mostly,” said the girl.

“I am not surprised to hear it,” said the fruit-seller gallantly.

“I like ortolans, too,” said the girl.

“Oh!” said the fruit-seller. Ortolans were very expensive.

But the girl was very pretty indeed; and if ortolans cost money, the fruit-seller had money and to spare.

“How would you like all these fruit for your very own?” he asked.

Now it was the girl’s turn to say “Oh!” Her eyes grew bigger than ever.

“I mean,” the fruit-seller went on, “how would you like to come and look after this shop? In short, and not to beat about the bush, how would you like to marry me?”

“I should like it very much indeed,” said the girl, who was a simple soul and always said just what she meant.

So married they were; and neither of them regretted it. The fruit-seller, whom his neighbours had regarded as a confirmed old bachelor, proved to be the most devoted of husbands, and gave his wife as many ortolans as she could possibly eat; while she was the merriest and most charming of wives imaginable. She was always laughing and dancing—especially dancing. One of the first things which the fruit-seller had noticed about her was how lightly she walked, and now that she was happy she hardly walked at all—she flitted.

All the same, she was very useful in the shop. The fruit-seller had been used to set out his fruit anyhow, often leaving them in the ugly, battered baskets in which he had bought them. But his wife changed all that. She had notions of her own about window-dressing, and her husband, though he could not see that the way the fruit were arranged made any difference to their taste, let her do what she would. So she devised wonderful contrasts of golden orange and purple grape, and piled the apples into glowing pyramids. The shop became one of the sights of Bergamo, and people came from far and near to see it. The fruit-seller’s business doubled, and he had to admit that his wife was not only a very delightful companion, but a very good business woman to boot.

In due course a son was born to this happy couple. He had his mother’s eyes; laughed instead of crying when he was born; and hardly ever stopped laughing afterwards. He danced before he could walk, though it would not be very easy to describe how he did it. He was called Harlequin.

The fruit-seller was immensely proud of this son of his, and his mother worshipped him.

“When he is old enough,” she said, “I shall make him a suit of all the colours of the fruit in the shop. For if it had not been for the fruit there would have been no Harlequin.”

So when the time came for Harlequin to be breeched, she made him a wonderful suit of diamond-shaped pieces of cloth, red and purple, green and orange; and Harlequin was the smartest little boy in Bergamo.

Why Harlequin Ran Away from Home

Harlequin was a very imp of mischief. Whatever naughtiness was afoot, he must take his part in it, and he soon became the ringleader among boys who were, many of them, twice his age and size. He showed a diabolical ingenuity in devising tricks to play upon the good folk of Bergamo. Incredibly active and fleet of foot, no policeman could hope to catch him, and no bird’s nest was safe from him: he went up church towers like a steeplejack. In his coloured suit he pirouetted joyfully about the town like a bright butterfly, working havoc wherever he went.

His mother laughed at his doings, and even his father, though he scolded him, could not at first help rather admiring him for them. “I was just such a young rascal at his age,” he would say; though it was difficult to believe that the stout fruit-seller had ever looked anything like his quicksilver son.

But when the boy’s devilries began to affect his trade, he took a more serious view of the matter. Harlequin liked nothing better than to sit in the window above the shop and pelt the customers with cherry-stones or even rotten oranges. Naturally the customers were annoyed, and some of them began to buy their fruit at the new shop over the way.

This made the fruit-seller very angry, and he decided that he must teach his son a lesson. So he went to the carpenter’s and bought a lath, or wand, of white wood, long and thin and flexible. And Harlequin, dancing into the shop, whistling and gay as usual, unexpectedly received his first thrashing.

His mother cried; which surprised Harlequin. It was not she who was being whipped. That himself should cry, which he did most lustily, was no wonder; for his father’s arm was strong, and those pretty clothes of his fitted him very tightly.

Still, he did not mend his ways. He lived for fun; and the fun which he got out of life was, he decided, well worth an occasional whipping. And, in spite of his mother’s tears, he was whipped pretty often.

As Harlequin grew older he discovered new kinds of mischief. By the time he was fifteen he was well known in all the taverns of Bergamo. He diced and played cards, kissed the girls, and was, altogether, as wild a youth as could be found in Lombardy.

“The gallows will be the end of him,” said his father.

“Oh, don’t say so!” cried his mother.

“Well, it is not my fault, my dear,” her husband replied. “I am sure I have done my best to bring him up properly, and I was always sober enough myself. I can’t imagine where he gets his wicked ways from.”

And the fruit-seller looked severely at his wife, for he could not help thinking that her merry disposition—and she was still as merry as ever when she was not worrying about Harlequin—was in some degree responsible for their son’s levity.

“Of one thing I am quite certain,” the fruit-seller concluded, “and that is that he will never be any use to me in the shop. Heaven only knows what is to become of him.”

His wife sighed. What was to become of her precious, scapegrace Harlequin? It certainly was a problem.

Harlequin himself solved the problem for them, quite suddenly.

One day there was a procession in Bergamo, a very magnificent affair. All the dignitaries of the town took part in it: among them the fruit-seller, who was now a person of great importance—and looked it, as he rode proudly on his white horse, in his fur-trimmed cloak of black velvet, with his gold chain about his shoulders.

The cavalcade was approaching the cathedral, and everything seemed to be going as it should. But suddenly there was a flash and a bang; then another; then a regular fusillade. For a moment people thought that some enemy, the French perhaps, had taken advantage of the holiday to make an attack on the town. The horses reared, threw their riders, and dashed into the crowd. Women screamed, men shouted, and all was confusion.

Harlequin flung his last cracker into an old woman’s market basket, paused a moment to laugh as she scuttled away as though the devil himself were after her, and then slipped up a deserted side street.

He was pleased with the success of his plot, but he was not sure that it had not been too successful. Of course, every one would guess who had been the author of it, and, if any one were seriously hurt, he would certainly be called to account. For the first time in his life he felt frightened.

“I very much doubt whether the air of Bergamo will be good for my health for some time to come,” he said to himself as he hurried back to the shop, which he knew he would find empty; for his mother was in a window in the great square, watching the procession. He filled his pockets with fruit and with the contents of the till. Also he took that long, flexible wand, of the virtue of which, as a weapon of attack, he had had such painful experience. He could not help shivering as he made it whistle through the air.

Until nightfall he hid in an empty stable on the outskirts of the town, where he and his friends had often gone to play their devilries. As soon as it was dark enough he took the road.

Harlequin Meets Scaramouche

Harlequin walked on through the darkness. The cool night breeze made him feel very cheerful. He whistled and skipped, and every now and then turned a somersault. Presently the moon rose, and it seemed to Harlequin that she was smiling at him. He took this for a good omen, for he knew that the moon could exercise what influence she would upon the lives of men, and it was by no means improbable that he might need a friend ere long. He bowed to her respectfully, and then, since he was not at all respectful by nature, blew her an airy kiss.

“She can take which greeting she prefers,” he said to himself.

The moon winked, and Harlequin, judging her by the girls he had known in Bergamo, guessed that it was his second salutation which she liked best.

He was not really very much worried by the idea of pursuit. In the first place, it was quite likely that the Bergamese, including his father, would be too glad to think that they had seen the last of him to try to get him back again, even for the pleasure of hanging him. In the second, he knew that he could show any pursuer, afoot or mounted, a clean pair of heels. He threw up his heels at the very idea and turned another somersault.

About dawn, he was set upon by a couple of footpads. But they were heavy country fellows, and they could not even touch the agile Harlequin, who flew round and round them like a ring of flame. He had only his light wand against their bludgeons, but he made it whirl and flash so in the dawning light that they thought it was a sword of the finest steel. He flicked one man on the cheek, who ran away screaming that he was dead. The other he caught across the ankles, and the fellow fell on his hands and knees and crawled off as fast as he could. So sure was he that both his feet were gone that he did not try to get up until he had crawled for more than a mile.

He must have looked very silly when he discovered his mistake, but Harlequin was not there to see him. He had gone on his own way, extremely pleased with his exploit, munching one of his father’s apples and whistling a merry tune whenever his mouth was empty enough.

At the first town he came to he bought a black mask.

“Just in case my father should catch me up,” he said. “Besides, there are lots of situations in which a mask is useful; and if I don’t sooner or later find myself in one of them my name is not Harlequin.”

Having eaten a sausage and drunk a flagon of wine, he set out once more on his journey. Nor had he gone very far before he heard, coming from round a bend of the road ahead of him, the sound of such infectious music that his feet were fairly caught up into the tune, so that when he came into sight of the player he was waltzing and pirouetting like a goat stung by a tarantula.

The player, who was sitting by the roadside, laid down his instrument, which was a mandoline hung with gay ribbons, and stared at Harlequin. He was a round-faced, roguish-looking fellow, dressed all in black, except for a white frill round his neck, and wearing a black cap rakishly on one side.

“Who in the name of Bacchus may you be?” he asked.

Harlequin was too out of breath to think of a lie, so he told the truth.

“You swear by a very admirable god,” he added.

“None better,” the other replied.

“And now—name for name, sir,” cried Harlequin.

“That is but fair,” said the musician, rising to his feet, and making a ceremonious bow. “I am Scaramouche, at your service. You may have heard of me.”

“I am afraid not,” said Harlequin.

“Indeed?” said Scaramouche, looking surprised. “Where, if I may ask, do you hail from?”

“From Bergamo.”

“Ah!” said Scaramouche contemptuously; “a poor, inconsiderable town, where art has never been cherished. You may have noticed,” he went on, “that I am something of a performer on the mandoline.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Harlequin. “Such playing I never heard before.”

Scaramouche smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. “I see that, although a Bergamese, you are a person of unusual discernment. But I can very honestly return your compliment. In all my wanderings, and I have visited the most famous cities of Italy, I have never met a dancer who was your equal.”

“Really?” said Harlequin, delighted.

“Never one who could hold a candle to you,” cried Scaramouche. “We are a pair well met. Together, we should conquer the world.”

“I should like that,” said Harlequin.

“Then listen to me,” said Scaramouche. “But, by the way, you have not told me whither you are journeying.”

“Nowhere in particular,” Harlequin replied. “I go where adventure calls.”

“Then you could not travel in better company than mine,” laughed Scaramouche. “For, by Bacchus!—whom we must duly honour at the earliest opportunity—I have never yet found adventure far from where I was.”

“But your plan, sir?”

“It is simple enough. You must know that I am a musician not only by nature, but by profession. My mandoline is my means of livelihood.”

“Then you should be a rich man,” said Harlequin.

“Thank you,” said Scaramouche. “You certainly have a very pretty way of putting things. As you say, I should be a rich man, a very rich man indeed; nay, the richest man in the world. For art is the greatest gift in the world, and music is the greatest of the arts, and, I think I may say it without vanity, I am the greatest musician in Italy, and therefore, of course, in the world. So you see ...”

“Quite,” said Harlequin, who knew nothing about art and was impatient to learn Scaramouche’s plan.

“But, alas!” Scaramouche went on, “there are so few people who can appreciate music for its own sake. Wherever I play, whether in the humblest tavern or the most magnificent palace—and I am equally at home in either—it is the same thing. ‘You play beautifully, Scaramouche,’ they say, ‘but what a pity you do not sing or dance as well! It would be so much more amusing.’ But, unfortunately, I sing like a frog and dance like an elephant. Perhaps you can sing, Harlequin?”

“Not very well,” said Harlequin.

“What one cannot do very well, is not worth doing at all,” replied Scaramouche sententiously. “But your dancing is certainly worth doing. With me to play and you to dance, we shall earn not twice, but ten times as much as I could earn alone. It will be gold instead of silver, silver instead of coppers, and we shall make our fortunes. But maybe you are rich already?”

“On the contrary,” said Harlequin, “when I have paid for my next meal, I shall hardly have a penny in my pocket.”

“Good!” said Scaramouche. “You will dance all the better if your supper depends on it. Are you ready to start?”

“To make my fortune? With all my heart. But where are you going to begin?”

“In Venice,” said Scaramouche. “Venice is the place where fortunes are made. Why, the merchants there are richer than princes anywhere else. Have you never been there?”

“Until last night I had never been outside Bergamo,” Harlequin replied.

“You don’t say so?” said Scaramouche. “Well, I will not ask you why you have left it now. I observe you wear a mask.”

“There is a reason for that,” said Harlequin, feeling rather a fine fellow.

“Quite so. And far be it from one gentleman to ask another why he chooses to go disguised. As a matter of fact,” Scaramouche added, “your mask will not come amiss to our work. A touch of mystery always appeals—especially to the women. You like women, Harlequin?”

“Why, yes,” said Harlequin, thinking of certain pretty lips in Bergamo.

“I did myself once,” said Scaramouche, “but nowadays I find them too much trouble. A flagon of wine is more to my taste. Give me comfort and a flagon of wine, and I want nothing more—until the flagon is empty. But you are young. You will like Venice.”

“Then Venice be it,” said Harlequin.

At Burattino’s Inn

So Venice it was; and Harlequin not only liked Venice, as Scaramouche had predicted, but found it a most astonishing city. Having never before been outside Bergamo, he had, of course, never seen the sea. And here was a town actually built on the sea; where the houses had their feet in the water and people went about their business in boats.

Scaramouche took him to an inn kept by a certain Burattino, where he had often stayed before.

“Burattino is a bit of an old rascal,” he told Harlequin, “but his beds are soft and he keeps a good table. We could not do better than make our headquarters with him. Also,” he added, “he has a very pretty daughter.”

It was by this daughter of Burattino’s, whose name was Violetta, that the travellers were welcomed.

Scaramouche kissed her.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “it is nice to see you again. How do you find yourself?”

“Blooming,” said the girl. And she looked it, with her plump, ruddy cheeks and her sparkling eyes.

“This is my young friend Harlequin,” said Scaramouche. “He is a famous dancer.”

“How do you do, sir?” said Violetta, and offered Harlequin her lips, which he was not slow in saluting.

“I like your kisses better than Scaramouche’s,” she said. “He kisses like an uncle. There is something of the lover in your way.”

“Naturally,” said Harlequin.

Violetta made him a merry curtsy.

“Neither of you seems to be wasting much time,” said Scaramouche.

“Play us a tune, Scaramouche,” said Violetta. “I want to see Harlequin dance.”

So Scaramouche played, and Harlequin danced, and presently the girl joined in.

“You dance beautifully,” Harlequin told her, when they had stopped.

“Nonsense,” retorted Violetta. “Wait till you see Columbine. She is worthy to dance even with you.”

“Who is Columbine?” Harlequin asked.

But before Violetta could tell him, her father, who had been awakened from his afternoon nap by Scaramouche’s music, came bustling out of the inn. An enormous fellow was Burattino, round as a wine-cask and as red and hearty as the wine of Burgundy.

“I guessed it was you, Scaramouche,” he cried.

“That was easy guessing,” said Scaramouche. “You heard me playing.”

“But I cannot guess who this young man may be, who seems on such excellent terms with my flibbertigibbet of a daughter.”

Scaramouche introduced Harlequin to Burattino, and then they all went indoors.

“We want two of your best beds, Burattino,” said Scaramouche.

“For as long as you like, my dear Scaramouche,” said the innkeeper; for he knew that with Scaramouche there to make music his parlour would always be full. When he learned of Harlequin’s wonderful dancing he grew more cordial than ever, and hastened to set before his guests the choicest of his cates and wine.

At present there was only one person besides themselves in the parlour; but that was a very magnificent person indeed. He was a tall, gaunt man, dressed in a gorgeous military uniform, with a great sword at his side and an enormous pair of moustachios which he twirled continually. He did not look at all pleased to see the newcomers, and glared at them fiercely from under eyebrows which were fit companions to his moustachios. Scaramouche, who had met him before, bowed to him, as Harlequin thought, in rather a mocking manner. The soldier nodded curtly.

“Who is that?” whispered Harlequin.

“That,” replied Scaramouche, “is the most illustrious Captain Spavente. What he is, I have no doubt you will find out for yourself before long. Anyway, I am far too hungry to tell you about him now.”

He fell to work upon his dinner, and Harlequin followed his example.

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

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

Scaramouche’s only answer was a snore.

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

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

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

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

“Did you like your dinner?” she asked.

“I never ate a better,” cried Harlequin.

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

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

“They are all I want,” said Violetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violetta turned angrily away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violetta clapped her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of them asked him why he wore a mask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are young, Harlequin,” said Scaramouche.

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

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

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

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

So Harlequin asked Violetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violetta laughed, and shook her pretty head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Poor Columbine!” said Harlequin.

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

And she flung her arms round his neck.

How Harlequin First Saw Columbine

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

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

“What is it?” he asked.

“Pantaloon and Columbine are passing.”

Harlequin hurried to the window.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violetta laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A dainty Venus rising from a sea

Which foams in furbelows and breaks in frills:

I’d simply love to take her on my knee ...

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

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

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

“And simply hate to pay her washing bills,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harlequin Visits the Doctor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presently Pierrot opened the door again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor smiled, or at any rate grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you any pain?” asked the Doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ugh!” he said.

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

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

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

“It aches terribly,” said Harlequin.

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

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

“What is that?” Pantaloon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” asked Harlequin sharply.

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

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

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

Violetta Sets Her Wits to Work

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

“Nowhere in particular,” said Harlequin carelessly.

Violetta laughed.

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

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

“Did you, Harlequin?” Violetta asked.

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

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

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

“Do tell us what happened,” cried Violetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.

“Ah, Coviello!” said Lelio in a languid voice, as the dancer approached. When he realised that it was not Coviello, he uttered an exclamation of surprise.

Harlequin hastened to explain about Coviello’s grandmother, and how he had come to take his place.

“Upon my soul!” cried Lelio. “You don’t mean to say that Coviello has a grandmother? How extraordinary! I suppose the fellow will be claiming a coat of arms next. What is your name, by the way?”

“Truffaldino, sir,” said Harlequin.

“And have you a grandmother, too?” Lelio asked.

“Certainly not, sir,” replied Harlequin promptly.

“And yet you are Coviello’s cousin,” said Lelio, looking puzzled.

“Only in a manner of speaking, sir,” said Harlequin.

“So much the better,” said Lelio, “if qualities, as they say, run in families. For Coviello was the worst servant I ever had. Had I not been so lazy I should have got rid of the oaf long ago. I hope you will do better, Truffaldino.”

“It is my devoutest wish, sir,” said Harlequin, bowing low, “to give you perfect satisfaction.”

“Well,” said Lelio, “you may as well set about it.” And he got out of bed.

Coviello had given Harlequin some hints as to his new duties; and the dancer, being naturally quick-witted, even on this first day was far less at a loss than might have been expected. He dressed Lelio and shaved him, and afterwards waited on him at breakfast; and Lelio, liking his light touch and graceful movements after Coviello’s clumsiness, had by the evening made up his mind to take him permanently into his service, and to leave Coviello to mourn for his grandmother, if he chose, for the rest of his life.

Harlequin Sees Columbine Once More

Harlequin waited impatiently for the day when Lelio would visit Columbine, or send him to her with a message; but Lelio, though he really intended to marry the Doctor’s daughter, felt it beneath his dignity to go too often to so humble a house as Pantaloon’s. He saw no cause to press his suit, for, coldly as Columbine always welcomed him, he could not believe that she would refuse a husband of his rank and elegance. He admired her the more for her reserve. In his view, a courtship should be a slow and dignified business. Harlequin’s methods would have deeply shocked him.

About a week after the dancer had entered his service, however, he decided that the time was come for another visit; and he set out for Pantaloon’s house, Harlequin walking behind him with a great bouquet of flowers which Lelio was going to present to Columbine. Harlequin was in high hopes of once more setting eyes on his beloved. He wondered whether she would recognise him under his disguise. Great was his disgust when, on arriving at their destination, Lelio entered the house alone and left him to kick his heels in the street. He did not even get a chance of speaking to Pierrot, to whom he had intended to make himself known. “If this is how things are to be,” he thought, “I might as well have stayed at Burattino’s.”

But Harlequin was not easily defeated. While he waited for Lelio, he set his nimble wits to work; and that evening, as his master sat yawning over his wine, he asked him whether he would like to see him dance.

From any other of his servants, Lelio would have considered such a suggestion a great impertinence, but “Truffaldino” was already high in his favour. Being a true Venetian he liked, above all things, to be amused; and Coviello’s cousin was certainly an amusing fellow.

“Can you dance, Truffaldino?” he asked.

“A little,” said Harlequin modestly.

“Go on, then,” said Lelio. “Let me see what you can do.”

What his new servant could do in the way of dancing amazed him. Since he had jilted Isabella for Columbine, Lelio went very little into the world, and so it chanced that he had never seen the mandoline-player and the dancer whose performances were so popular in fashionable Venice.

“I must confess that you dance very well, Truffaldino,” he said, taking a pinch of snuff. “Where did you learn the art?”

“I was born dancing,” said Harlequin, “and I daresay I shall die dancing.”

“Then I hope it will be with your feet on the ground,” laughed Lelio.

Seeing his master in so good a humour, Harlequin thought that he might venture a little further.

“I wonder if I might take a great liberty, sir,” he said.

“I will tell you that when you have taken it,” replied Lelio. “You do it at your own risk, remember.”

“Well, sir,” said Harlequin, “is it not possible that my dancing might afford some entertainment to the lady whom you visited this morning? Ladies are often very partial to dancing.”

Lelio frowned, and Harlequin feared that he had angered him. But Lelio was not angry: he was only thinking.

“That is not a bad idea,” he said at length. “I noticed that she seemed rather out of spirits this morning. Perhaps your dancing would divert her. Yes, Truffaldino, you shall come with me next time I visit her.”

Harlequin had difficulty in restraining himself from showing his joy. As for Lelio, he also was pleased; for the notion of going courting attended by a dancer—and so good a dancer as “Truffaldino”—struck him as extremely elegant.

Thus it was that Harlequin again saw his beautiful Columbine. He was very much grieved to observe how pale she was and how unhappy she looked; but he could not help being gratified by the listless air with which she accepted Lelio’s well-turned compliments.

It was clear that at first she did not recognise her lover; but when, at Lelio’s command, he began to dance, he saw a puzzled look come into her face—and then she blushed—and then she trembled a little. She knew him!

Harlequin got no chance of speaking to her alone that day. But little by little, as his position with Lelio grew more and more privileged, he managed to contrive means of going without his master to the Doctor’s house. He would suggest, so tactfully that Lelio thought that the idea was his own, that it would be a graceful thing to send a present of sweetmeats or flowers, or even a jewel, to Columbine. And Lelio liked always to act gracefully.

Harlequin insisted on delivering the presents into Columbine’s own hands. He said that it was his master’s desire, and Pantaloon, so churlish with every one else, was all complaisance to Lelio’s lightest whim. It is true that he was usually present at the lovers’ meetings, but one who had the honour to wear Lelio’s livery was, in the Doctor’s eyes, a person worthy to be trusted; and when, as sometimes happened, a patient called while the dancer was in the house, Pantaloon quite happily left “Truffaldino” with his daughter. Pierrot, too, whom Columbine had told who the pretended lackey really was, became quite clever at inventing reasons to get his master out of the way.

So once more Harlequin and Columbine enjoyed some happy moments, and the roses returned to Columbine’s cheeks. But they were very short moments and they did not occur very often; and the lovers, who were both more in love than ever, were far from being satisfied. Nothing, indeed, would content them but that they should run away together—and how were they to do that, when it was impossible to leave the house, to draw the creaking bolts and loosen the clanking chains, without Pantaloon hearing them?

Harlequin, on his way back to the palace, sometimes called at Burattino’s, but though Violetta and Scaramouche were always glad to see him, they had no new suggestions to make.

As Harlequin became better acquainted with his master’s private affairs, however, he got to know certain things which set him thinking. One was that Lelio, though he was as devoted to Columbine as so languid a gentleman was capable of being, was not a little inclined to regret his break with Isabella. A marriage between himself and the great heiress would have been so fitting a match. Their wedding might have been the most splendid ever seen in Venice. He did not propose to have very much ceremony when he married Columbine; for he was afraid that his friends would only come to laugh at him, and he did not at all relish the notion of being laughed at.

Naturally the Lady Isabella’s name was not very often spoken in Lelio’s presence, but when by chance it was, Harlequin noticed that his master was far more interested than he pretended to be, and that when any one was mentioned as paying court to her, he could scarcely conceal his annoyance. Isabella had many suitors, though she gave them but little encouragement.

Another thing which the observant Harlequin discovered was that, although Lelio was acknowledged to be the finest gentleman in Venice, there was a certain Leandro who ran him a close second. There had, indeed, been an ardent rivalry between the two young men as to which of them should be the leader of fashion, and though hitherto the palm had always gone to Lelio, now that he was seen so little Leandro was beginning to usurp his place. Lelio sometimes thought seriously of reasserting himself, but he dare not go much into society for fear of meeting Isabella. When he heard, however, of some new triumph of his rival’s—some particularly delightful entertainment which he had given or some specially exquisite suit which he had worn—he almost wished that he had never seen the fascinating Columbine.

These feelings Harlequin did all he could to foster. From his fellow servants and the servants of the other great houses whom he met in the taverns he heard many stories of what was happening in the fashionable world, and such stories he would repeat to his master while he was dressing him. Nor did they lose in the repetition.

One day, when he thought the time was ripe, Harlequin said to Lelio: “I wonder, sir, whether you have heard the latest news.”

“What is it?” asked Lelio.

“Why, sir,” said Harlequin, in a very innocent voice, “that there is likely soon to be a great wedding in Venice.”

“Indeed,” said Lelio, “between whom?”

“Between the Lord Leandro and the Lady Isabella,” said Harlequin.

Lelio, who was being shaved, started from his chair so violently that he gashed his chin badly on the razor in his servant’s hand. But he was far too excited to notice the fact, though the blood quite ruined his beautiful shirt.

“Nonsense!” he cried. “It is impossible!”

“I only tell you what I have heard, sir,” said Harlequin. “I had it from one of the Lord Leandro’s own servants.”

Lelio was in a fume. If Leandro and Isabella married, and their two great houses were united, his own proud position would be gone for ever.

“You must find out more of this, Truffaldino,” he cried; and then, realising how much beneath his dignity it was to talk in this strain to a mere lackey, he added more calmly: “I have a special and important reason for wishing to have certain knowledge in this matter.”

“I will do my best, sir,” said Harlequin, deftly applying a piece of cotton-wool to his master’s chin.

Pantaloon’s Dinner Party

“I think I see a way out of our troubles at last, my dear,” said Harlequin next time he was alone with Columbine.

“Oh, Harlequin!” cried Columbine. “How?”

Harlequin told her what was in his mind, and she listened with eager attention.

“But it sounds dreadfully dangerous,” she said, when he had finished.

“Don’t you think it is worth the risk?” Harlequin asked.

“Yes, yes,” cried Columbine, “of course I do. Oh!—to be away with my Harlequin—to have him all to myself—what happiness!”

Harlequin kissed her tenderly. When he had left her, he went to the inn and had a long and earnest conversation with Scaramouche and Violetta.

“Good luck to you, Harlequin,” cried the innkeeper’s daughter, as he at last took his departure. “So noble a plot deserves to succeed.”

“I suppose I must wish you good luck, too,” growled the musician, “but I think you would have done far better to stay with me.”

Pantaloon, now that he believed that Harlequin had gone away for good, was treating Columbine with less severity; but he was none the less determined that she should marry Lelio, and was very vexed that she showed as little inclination as ever to comply with his wishes. His manner towards her, therefore, if not actually cruel, was far from affectionate, and usually there was but little conversation between father and daughter.

So the old Doctor was greatly surprised when that evening after supper the girl came to him and perched herself upon his knee.

“I am afraid, Papa,” she said timidly, “that you do not think that I am a very good daughter to you.”

Pantaloon, who was really very fond of his child, and believed that the way he treated her was only for her good, was quite moved by this display of affection.

“Nay, my dear,” he said, patting her hand, “except on one point you are the best of daughters.”

“Ah!” said Columbine, “but you consider that one point the most important of all, do you not?”

“Why, of course,” said Pantaloon. “There are few doctors’ daughters who are sought in marriage by lords. I cannot think how you can be so foolish as to scorn such good fortune.”

“But if I do not love him, Papa?” said Columbine.

“Love!” replied Pantaloon scornfully. “What is love compared with a position like Lelio’s? Besides, you will come to love him in time—so handsome and gallant a gentleman.... I hope, Columbine”, he went on, more sternly, “that you are not still thinking of that scoundrelly dancer?”

“Oh, no, Papa,” said Columbine, blushing. “I see now how wrongly I behaved, and to make amends for my naughtiness, I have determined to marry Lelio ...”

“You have?” cried Pantaloon in delight.

“... When he asks for me,” Columbine went on demurely. “He has not asked for me yet, you know.”

“Not in so many words,” said the Doctor. “But he will soon enough, if you will only smile on him. You are always so cold to him, and he is far too proud to care to risk the rejection of his suit.”

“I will try to smile on him,” said Columbine meekly. “Do you not think, Papa, that it would be a good idea to ask him to dinner? One feels so much more friendly at dinner-time.”

“Ask Lelio to dine at my humble table!” exclaimed Pantaloon. “What a notion! Where is my plate? What wine have I fit for him to drink? Who would wait upon him?”

“If Lelio really loves me,” Columbine replied, “he will not mind eating off porcelain for once in his life, while as for wine, I daresay that Violetta, when she hears who is to be our guest, would persuade Burattino to let us have some good wine at a cheap rate. And Pierrot can wait at table.”

“A pretty mess he would make of it,” cried Pantaloon; but he was in such good humour that Columbine had little difficulty in persuading him to comply with her wish.

So Pierrot was despatched to the palace with a letter inviting Lelio to dine at the Doctor’s house on the morrow.

Lelio laughed when he read it.

“What is the world coming to?” he cried. “Pantaloon invites me, Lelio, to dine with him. I suppose he thinks that since his daughter pleases me, he is my equal in rank! I see that if I marry Columbine I shall have to pay her father to live at the other end of the country—otherwise I shall be plagued out of my life with his impertinences.”

At first, to Harlequin’s concern, he was for refusing the invitation. Then it occurred to him that it would be a new and perhaps amusing experience to dine at such a house as the Doctor’s, and he decided to accept it. The pleasure of seeing Columbine did not seem to enter into his consideration, but Harlequin knew that he was so much worried by what he had heard about Leandro and Isabella that he had little thought for anything else.

When the time came to dress his master for the dinner-party, Harlequin presented himself with a very solemn expression on his face.

“How now, Truffaldino?” said Lelio. “What is the matter?”

“I have just heard something which I think will interest you, sir,” he said. “The Lord Leandro has invited the Lady Isabella to accompany him this evening in his gondola, and she has consented.”

“A gondola party?” Lelio asked.

“No, sir,” replied Harlequin. “I am told they are to be alone.”

“Good heavens!” cried Lelio. “This is too much! This must be stopped!”

“He fetches her within the half-hour,” said Harlequin.

“Then there is no time to lose,” said Lelio.

“You have not forgotten, sir,” said Harlequin, “that you dine with Doctor Pantaloon?”

“I can’t go!” cried the excited young nobleman. “I won’t go! You must take a message. Say—oh! say what you will. But first order my gondola to be prepared immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harlequin, and he bowed and went out. When he returned, he found his master muffled to the eyes in a great cloak and examining his sword. He conducted him to his gondola, saw him start down the canal in the direction of Isabella’s palace, and then hurried back to Lelio’s room.

Harlequin changed into one of his master’s richest suits, and he, too, donned a cloak which hid his face.

Lelio’s coach was at the door, with the coachman on the box and the footman in attendance. Harlequin, copying his master’s languid air to the life, got into the coach, and the coachman, who had already received his instructions from “Truffaldino,” whipped up the horses.

As they bowled along, Harlequin took from his pocket a little phial containing a white powder, examined it carefully, and replaced it in his pocket.

The first thing that happened when the coach had stopped at Pantaloon’s was an accident. As Harlequin stepped on to the street, the Doctor, who had long been on the watch for his distinguished guest, ran from the house with words of effusive welcome. These Harlequin acknowledged by raising his hat with so magnificent a gesture that the brim of it swept Pantaloon’s spectacles from his nose. Harlequin darted forward to pick them up, but in so doing he unluckily trod on them, grinding the glasses to a thousand atoms.

“My dear Pantaloon,” cried Harlequin, in what was not at all a bad imitation of Lelio’s voice. “How careless of me! How intolerably clumsy! Can you forgive me?”

“It does not matter at all,” said Pantaloon. He spoke as though the greatest favour had been conferred on him. But for the rest of the evening he saw very little of what was going forward.

Nevertheless, the dinner was a great success. Pantaloon was surprised at his guest’s liveliness; for usually Lelio had not very much to say for himself. The food, which Columbine had prepared with Violetta’s assistance, was really excellent; the wine from Burattino’s was good enough for Lelio’s own table; and even Pierrot, though he did spill some soup on Lelio’s coat, at which the affable gentleman laughed heartily, acquitted himself not nearly so ill as Pantaloon had feared. Columbine, it is true, was almost silent, but this her father attributed to a becoming modesty.

The Doctor was therefore in high good humour when his guest rose and, in happily chosen words, proposed the health of his charming hostess.

“This is a toast,” he concluded, turning to Pantaloon, “to drink which you and I must exchange our glasses—in token of the closer bond which I hope will ere very long unite us.”

As he spoke he quickly drew the little phial from his pocket and emptied its contents into his glass. Then, taking Pantaloon’s in exchange, he handed the glass to his host, who, blind but beaming, raised it aloft and drained it at a draught.

Pantaloon’s last thought was that it was his turn now to make a speech. He tried to rise to his feet; instead of which, he fell heavily forward, his head sunk upon the table, and so he stayed.

“Oh, Harlequin,” cried Columbine in a fright, “is he dead?”

“No,” said Harlequin, “he is only asleep. And, unless the chemist has played me false, he will sleep for some hours to come. All the same, we had better not delay. Are you ready, my dear?”

Columbine ran from the room. When she returned, she was cloaked and carrying a little bag, in which she had put the few things which she wanted to take with her into her new life.

She gazed for a moment at her father.

“Poor Papa!” she sighed, and kissed the top of his head.

Then she turned to accompany Harlequin.

Pierrot saw them out. He managed to wish them a fairly cheerful good-bye; but as he watched them disappear into the darkness two big tears coursed down his white cheeks.

Concerning Lelio and Pantaloon

There was certainly a gondola outside Isabella’s palace, and on the palace steps a man was standing. The gondola was not Leandro’s, and the man looked stouter than that elegant young nobleman, who prided himself on his slimness; but he was masked, and so completely muffled in his cloak that it was impossible to see what his figure was really like. It was natural, too, that for the adventure on which Lelio believed Leandro to be embarked he should not use his own smart gondola, which every one in Venice knew. Lelio, at any rate, had no doubt that what “Truffaldino” had told him was true; and he was surer of it than ever when, as he approached, a woman, also cloaked and masked, stepped out from the shadow of the palace. The two got into the gondola and entered its cabin, and the gondolier pushed out into the stream.

Lelio had formed no definite plan of action, but he was determined to discover whither Leandro and Isabella were going. So he told his own gondolier to keep their craft in sight, but to stay far enough behind it not to be observed. Then the game began.

It was a long game, and for Lelio a very wearisome one. It soon appeared that Leandro and Isabella were going nowhere in particular. They merely rowed up and down and in and out of the canals, apparently without purpose. Lelio, who had not dined, grew hungrier and hungrier, and the hungrier he grew the worse became his temper. He fingered his sword in a way which boded very ill for Leandro.

At last, after several hours, the wandering gondola drew up quite suddenly at a landing-stage in a little side-canal, and the two occupants got out. Lelio was only a few moments behind, and he leaped to land just as his quarry was moving away. He hurried after them, crying to them in a very threatening manner to stop. He was so angry that he was for having the matter out there and then, regardless of consequences.

At the sound of his voice, the man and woman turned round, at the same time removing their masks.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man politely. “Did you address us?”

Lelio was dumbfounded. Whoever they might be, they were not Leandro and Isabella.

His first impulse was to vent his rage upon them nevertheless, but he realised in time that to do so would make him look very ridiculous. It was not their fault—at least he did not know that it was—that he had been following them.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I fear I have made a mistake.” And without more ado he dashed back to his gondola and told the gondolier, in a furious voice, to take him home.

Homewards, too, went Scaramouche and Violetta, so soon as their merriment had abated sufficiently to allow them to walk.

Pantaloon, having slept for about four hours, woke up. At first he did not know where he was, but gradually, seeing the remains of the feast on the table, the broken meats and empty glasses, he recollected the earlier events of the evening. Then he observed Pierrot sitting in the window, his white face made whiter by the moonlight which streamed through the panes.

“What has happened?” asked Pantaloon.

“You have been asleep, sir,” said Pierrot.

“I know that,” replied the Doctor testily. “Where is Columbine?”

Pierrot looked at him in melancholy and frightened silence.

“Where is Columbine?” Pantaloon repeated.

“She has gone,” said Pierrot in a hollow voice.

“Gone!” cried Pantaloon. “What do you mean? Gone where?”

“I don’t know,” said Pierrot.

“You are talking nonsense,” shouted Pantaloon. “She can’t have gone. Columbine wouldn’t do such a thing.”

But he was soon convinced that she had, for he searched every room in the house and could find no trace of his daughter.

“The villain!” he cried, as he returned to the parlour. “To steal her from under my very nose! I suppose he thinks that a fine gentleman like him can treat a mere physician as he pleases. But he shall learn his mistake, if I have to burn his palace down to teach him.”

To this Pierrot said nothing. If Pantaloon believed that it was Lelio who had carried Columbine away, so much the better. It would make the lovers’ chance of escape all the surer.

His silence, however, did not save his own skin. For suddenly the infuriated Doctor turned upon his pale assistant.

“You are in this, too,” he stormed. “I know you are, you scoundrel. You helped that dancing rascal to play his tricks, and now you have helped Lelio. Out of my house, you wretch! Never let me see your moon-face again!”

And with kicks and cuffs of surprising vigour for one so old and infirm, he drove Pierrot out of the room, out of the house and into the street, and slammed the door against him.

When he had recovered a little from his bewilderment, Pierrot made his way to Burattino’s. He arrived there at the same moment as Scaramouche and Violetta, who were still laughing over the dance which they had led Lelio. They took him into the inn, and while Violetta plastered his broken head, he told them how matters had gone at Pantaloon’s dinner party.

Violetta clapped her hands when she heard that Harlequin and Columbine had got safely away.

“We did our part well, too, didn’t we, Scaramouche?” she said.

“Not at all badly, my dear,” replied the musician. “But it was hungry and thirsty work.”

Violetta took the hint, and laid the table for supper.

“As for you, Pierrot,” she said, “you must stay here with us. You shall have Harlequin’s bed.”

“Yes,” said Scaramouche, “and you shall do Harlequin’s work. Where he danced, you shall sing; and you shall make that fortune which he so foolishly abandoned.”

“I feel as though I could never sing again,” said Pierrot.

“Nonsense!” said Scaramouche, and filled his glass for him.

The first thing next morning Pantaloon went straight to Lelio’s palace. Lelio, of course, was still in bed, but the Doctor was so insistent in his demands to see him that at last a message was taken up to him.

“Let him come,” said Lelio indifferently. He wondered sleepily what the old gentleman wanted. Not that it mattered very much. After the way his dignity had been upset on the previous night, nothing seemed to matter very much to Lelio.

Pantaloon came striding to his bedside.

“Give me my daughter,” he said in a threatening voice.

“My good fellow, what on earth are you talking about?” said Lelio, sitting up. “I haven’t got your daughter.”

“You can’t deceive me, sir,” shouted Pantaloon.

“You are making a great deal of noise,” said Lelio.

“Who wouldn’t make a noise,” Pantaloon retorted, “when his daughter had been stolen by his own guest after he himself had been drugged at his own table? For shame, sir! It was a trick unworthy of a nobleman.”

“No doubt,” said Lelio calmly. “But perhaps you would explain yourself a little more clearly.”

“It strikes me that it is your business to explain,” said the Doctor. “Do you deny my charge?”

“Most certainly,” Lelio replied.

“I suppose you will deny that you dined with me last night,” Pantaloon sneered.

“Why!” exclaimed Lelio. “Are you in your dotage, Pantaloon? Don’t you remember that I sent you a message to express my regret that important business”—here Lelio blushed—“prevented me from having that pleasure? Didn’t Truffaldino give you that message?”

“He did not,” said Pantaloon. “And what is more, you did dine with me last night, my Lord Lelio.”

“I give you my word of honour I did nothing of the kind,” said Lelio haughtily.

Pantaloon was silent. Who was he to doubt the word of honour of a nobleman?

“There is evidently some mystery here,” Lelio went on. “Perhaps Truffaldino can throw light upon it. Which reminds me, I have seen nothing of the fellow since I came home last night.”

As a matter of fact, Lelio had been so put out of countenance by his misadventure that he had not cared to face even his servant. Contrary to his custom, therefore, he had not sent for him but, for the first time in his life, had undressed and gone to bed without assistance.

He rang the bell by his bedside, and a page appeared.

“Send Truffaldino,” said Lelio.

The page went away, but no Truffaldino came. Lelio was getting very impatient when the boy returned to say that the lackey was nowhere to be found.

“This is very strange,” said Lelio; and then it occurred to him that it was Truffaldino who had told him the story which had led to his humiliating wild-goose chase. “I am afraid there is something queer about that fellow,” he added. “I suppose I ought to have found out more about him when I took him into my service.” He turned to the page. “Do you happen to know where Coviello is?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said the boy, “but I do not think it would be very hard to find him. He will be in some tavern or other, if I know Coviello.”

“Visit every tavern in Venice if necessary,” said Lelio, “but bring him to me. If you will wait,” he said to Pantaloon, “perhaps we may get an explanation of this extraordinary occurrence.”

It was not so very long before the page came back, and behind him slouched Coviello. Nor was it very long before Lelio had drawn from his old lackey an account of how he had been bribed to give his place and his livery to a stranger.

“And you did not bury your grandmother after all?” Lelio asked.

“I never had a grandmother,” said Coviello.

“I thought not,” said Lelio.

“I hope you will forgive me, sir,” said Coviello, “and take me back into your service.”

“Well,” said Lelio, “since Truffaldino has apparently gone for good, I suppose I might as well. You are a bad servant, but at least you know my ways. You had better get into your livery again.”

“Truffaldino had my livery,” said Coviello.

“So he had, the scamp!” said Lelio. “You will have to have a new one. Are those Truffaldino’s clothes that you are wearing?”

“No, sir,” replied Coviello. “He bought them for me. He was wearing the funniest clothes—as tight as his skin and all the colours of the rainbow.”

At this Pantaloon uttered such a cry that Lelio nearly jumped out of bed.

“Whatever is the matter now?” he asked.

“He has got her after all!” cried Pantaloon, wringing his hands. “The villain! The scoundrel! Oh, why didn’t I guess?”

“Guess what?” said Lelio.

“That Truffaldino was Harlequin,” wailed the Doctor; and, though he was so enraged that he could hardly speak coherently, he poured into Lelio’s ears the tale of Harlequin’s wickedness.

“You seem to have been nicely tricked, my friend,” said Lelio, when he had finished.

“You too,” cried Pantaloon.

Lelio raised his eyebrows. He could not deny that he had been tricked, but to be coupled with Pantaloon did not please him at all.

“There is no time to lose,” the Doctor went on. “We must rescue Columbine from your rival’s clutches.”

“My rival!” exclaimed Lelio. “Thank you. I pretend to no rivalry with dancers and lackeys.”

“But surely,” cried Pantaloon in surprise, “you are going to help me to find Columbine?”

“I really shouldn’t dream of interfering so far in your family affairs,” said Lelio coldly. And very deliberately he lay down in his bed again and turned his back on the Doctor.

Pantaloon gazed at him for a moment in speechless indignation, and then stamped out of the room.

“This is what comes of mixing with the lower classes,” Lelio murmured, as he heard the door slam behind the old gentleman whom less than twenty-four hours ago he had regarded as his future father-in-law. “I might have known that a girl of Columbine’s birth could not be worthy of me.... But she was very charming,” he sighed.

Presently he raised himself on his elbow and called to Coviello, who was still waiting his pleasure.

“Dress me, Coviello,” he said, “and dress me very carefully. I have an important visit to pay.”

The Married Life of Harlequin and Columbine

The very first thing that Harlequin did when he and Columbine were fairly out of Venice was to strip off Lelio’s grand clothes and throw them into a ditch. Seeing him once more in the well-known suit of many colours Columbine laughed for joy.

“Now you are more like my Harlequin,” she exclaimed.

Harlequin put on his mask and brandished his wand, which had been concealed in the folds of Lelio’s cloak.

“Now you are really and truly my Harlequin,” cried Columbine, and floated into his arms.

They walked on through the moonlit night and in the morning came to a village. Having broken their fast at the inn, they sought the priest, who married them in the little village church.

Then they continued their journey, though they minded but little whither they went. They were quite content to walk side by side and love one another. Sometimes they stopped to dance, and sometimes they paused to kiss. By evening they found themselves in an orange grove, and there they rested.

When Columbine awoke, she saw that Harlequin was busy carving something on the trunk of the tree under which they had slept. She rose and looked over his shoulder, and this is what she read.

Dear orange tree, whose leafy tent
Has served our love for hiding-place,
Take, and let never Time deface,
These lines, a lover’s testament.

And say to all who wend their way,

Happy and idle, down this glade:

If pleasure had the power to slay,

I should have died beneath thy shade.

“Oh, Harlequin,” said Columbine, “how beautiful! I never guessed that you were a poet.”

“I was not, until you made me one,” said Harlequin, kissing her.

Their wandering honeymoon lasted for several weeks. Sometimes they slept in the open, sometimes at inns, and when they needed money they had only to dance for it.

It was a jolly life, and they were both very happy, but one day Columbine said to her husband: “Harlequin, I should like to see your home. Won’t you take me there? I am sure your parents must have forgiven you by now.”

“Whether they have or not,” said Harlequin, “they will certainly do so when they see what a beautiful wife I have married.”

So they turned their steps towards Bergamo, where they arrived after two or three days. As they walked through the streets, Harlequin pointed out to Columbine, who was, of course, very much interested, the scenes of his boyish exploits. When they reached the shop, Harlequin was surprised to see that it was twice as big as it had been when he left it. One half was still filled with fruit, while the other was filled with flowers most tastefully arranged.

“That is my mother’s doing, I know,” he said. “And there she is herself.”

Skipping into the shop, he took his mother into his arms.

“Oh, my precious Harlequin!” she cried, when she had a little recovered from her surprise. “You have come back at last.”

She was too much delighted to utter a single word of reproach for his long truancy.

When she saw Columbine, and learned that the lovely girl was Harlequin’s wife, she was more delighted than ever: and Columbine loved her at once, for she was quite as charming, and almost as pretty, as when she had married the fruit-seller.

“But where is my father?” Harlequin asked.

“Alas!” replied his mother, “your poor father is dead.”

“Dead!” cried Harlequin; and “Oh dear!” murmured Columbine.

“I hope it was not my running away that killed him,” said Harlequin.

“No,” said his mother. “Of course he was very angry about that, but I think he was really glad to be rid of so disgraceful a son”—and she smiled at Harlequin as though she did not consider him in the least disgraceful. “It was this way,” she continued. “Having become such an important person in Bergamo, he had to go to a great many banquets. As you will remember, Harlequin, he was always a very full-blooded man; and in the end an apoplexy carried him off.”

The widow sighed, for she had been very fond of the fruit-seller; but with Harlequin home again, she could not feel sad for long.

“I shall give up the shop to you, Harlequin,” she said presently. “It will keep you out of mischief. Besides, I am getting old.”

She did not look at all old, but Harlequin was quite willing to mind the shop or do anything else, so long as Columbine was with him. So he sold the fruit, and Columbine the flowers, and they drove a brisker trade than even the old fruit-seller had done. The beauty of Harlequin’s wife was soon the talk of Bergamo, and people came to buy just for the sake of looking at her. In the evening, when the shop was shut, Harlequin and Columbine used to dance, and very often the widow would join them. She danced as delightfully as ever.

During the day, she sewed alternately at a little patchwork suit and a little frilled white dress. In due course both were needed.

One morning, when Harlequin was arranging his fruit, he heard the sound of a mandoline coming from down the street.

“There is only one man in all Italy who can play like that,” he cried, and, dropping his basket of apples, he ran as fast as he could in the direction of the music.

In a minute he was back again, and with him was Scaramouche, plump and merry as of old. Columbine welcomed the musician warmly, and asked him eagerly for news of Venice.

“Why, my dear,” said Scaramouche, “many things have happened there since you ran away. But what will interest you most, I expect, is that there have been two weddings—of both of which your departure was the cause. For neither of the bridegrooms would have looked elsewhere had Columbine’s bright eyes still been there to draw their gaze.”

Columbine blushed.

“The marriage of Lelio and Isabella,” Scaramouche proceeded, “was a very magnificent affair indeed. The other was not so gorgeous, but it was merry enough. I saw to that.”

“Whose marriage do you mean?” Columbine asked. “Surely not Pierrot’s?”

“Yes, Pierrot’s,” replied Scaramouche.

“Pierrot is never married!” exclaimed Harlequin.

“He is, though,” said Scaramouche. “And married to Violetta. I myself opposed the notion at first. For Pierrot sings very nicely, and our performances together were becoming as popular as yours and mine used to be. And I knew that, once married, he would be lost to me. But Violetta insisted that he needed a wife to look after him—and Violetta, as you know, is a young woman of determined character.”

“Are they happy?” asked Columbine.

“The happiest couple in the world, by all appearances,” said Scaramouche.

“Except one,” said Harlequin, and again Columbine blushed.

“Of course I should have excepted present company,” laughed Scaramouche. “But, really, they are most devoted. Indeed, I got quite tired of their billing and cooing. I felt out of it. That is why I am on the road again.”

“And have you any news of my father?” Columbine asked.

“No,” said Scaramouche, “none. He left Venice to look for you, the very day after your flight, and nothing has been heard of him since.”

“Poor Papa!” said Columbine, sighing. “I hope no evil has befallen him. I wish I could see him again.” This was perfectly true, for in her happiness she had quite forgotten Pantaloon’s unkindness and remembered only that he was her father.

It was not so very long before her wish was fulfilled. All this time Pantaloon had been searching for his daughter through the length and breadth of Italy, and at last he came to Bergamo. Riding on his donkey, he arrived at the shop, looking so old and tired that Columbine cried when she saw him. As for the Doctor, he was so glad to have found his daughter again that he never even thought of saying the harsh things which he had intended to say to her; nor, seeing Columbine so prosperous and contented, could he do anything else but forgive Harlequin on the spot.

Thenceforth Pantaloon lived above the fruit shop, where Columbine and Harlequin’s mother looked after him. He spent most of his time playing with his grandchildren, and his only quarrel with his son-in-law was that he was never allowed to give them physic.

FINIS

Transcriber’s note:

A half-title and publisher’s note have been discarded.

Evident typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected silently.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF HARLEQUIN ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- THE ADVENTURES OF HARLEQUIN
- Contents
- How Harlequin Came to be Born
- Why Harlequin Ran Away from Home
- Harlequin Meets Scaramouche
- At Burattino’s Inn
- The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment
- How Harlequin First Saw Columbine
- Harlequin Visits the Doctor
- Violetta Sets Her Wits to Work
- Violetta Plots and Columbine Wonders
- Harlequin’s Opportunity
- Pierrot Sings to Columbine
- Captain Spavente Makes Mischief

- Columbine’s Punishment and Harlequin’s New Plan

- How Harlequin Took Service with Lelio
- Harlequin Sees Columbine Once More
- Pantaloon’s Dinner Party
- Concerning Lelio and Pantaloon
- The Married Life of Harlequin and Columbine
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE