The adventures of Harlequin

“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:

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.