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.”