The adventures of Harlequin

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.

“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