The adventures of Harlequin

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:

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.