The adventures of Harlequin

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.