The Lady Isabella’s Entertainment
Scaramouche seemed to be in no hurry to start making that fortune of which he had talked so eloquently to Harlequin. He was too comfortable at the inn to care to stir far abroad. Harlequin, however, did not mind; he was quite happy flirting with Violetta and poking fun at the Captain.
Nevertheless, the two artists were not altogether idle. Every evening they played and danced for the amusement of the company in the inn parlour; and soon the excellence of their performance was the talk of Venice. Harlequin became as famous as Scaramouche; folk flocked to see him, and Burattino rubbed his fat hands with delight. Every one was pleased except Spavente, to whose tales of his own prowess no one would listen when the musician and the dancer were at work. He hated Harlequin, which was not surprising, and vowed to be revenged on him.
It was not long before invitations began to come from the rich merchants. Then Harlequin thought that he was indeed on the high road to fortune, but Scaramouche said it was only a beginning.
“These tradesmen,” he said, “have certainly plenty of money, but they know its value too well. Wait till the nobles begin to take notice of us. However poor they may be—and some of them are little better than beggars—they always seem to have gold to fling about. And fling it about they do—like dirt.”
One day he came to Harlequin with his face as solemn as so round and merry a face was capable of being.
“You will have to dance your best to-night, my friend,” he said. “We are going to the Lady Isabella’s. Her palace is one of the finest in Venice, and she is the greatest heiress—none of your upstart merchant’s daughters, but a lady of the most ancient blood. If I am not very much mistaken, we shall come home with a hat full of gold.”
So Harlequin practised some new pirouettes, Scaramouche tuned his mandoline, and at the appointed hour they set forth.
On arriving at Isabella’s palace they were received by an immense negro, clad in crimson velvet and gold lace, who led them through many apartments, larger and more magnificent than any that Harlequin had ever seen before, until they came to the largest and most magnificent of all.
The walls were hung with rose-coloured brocade and panelled with long mirrors in gilded and fantastically carven frames. The floors were parquetted with rare woods and strewn with rugs from the East. A thousand candles blazed in the candelabras of crystal which hung from the moulded ceiling.
Nor was the company less handsome than its setting. Ladies, in exquisite silks and laces, sat or reclined on gilded chairs and couches. Gentlemen, dressed in the very latest fashion, stood before them, or leaned confidentially over their shoulders. The ladies fluttered their fans, the gentlemen toyed with their snuff-boxes, and there was a babble of talk and easy laughter, punctuated at intervals by the shrill yapping of a pampered and beribboned little lap-dog, which ran from one group to another seeking sweetmeats and caresses.
Harlequin and Scaramouche performed on a platform at one end of the room. At first, Harlequin was mortified to observe, very little notice was taken of them, and the talking and laughter went on undiminished. But gradually, fascinated by the sweet strains of Scaramouche’s mandoline and by his companion’s graceful agility, the frivolous throng grew more and more silent and attentive; and, when the dancing was over, there was warm and genuine applause. Several of the dainty ladies spoke to Harlequin, praising his skill, and he delighted them with the aptness of his replies.
One of them asked him why he wore a mask.
“Ah, madam!” he said mysteriously, “I have the best of reasons.”
“I am sure you have,” cried the lady, tapping him with her fan. “For I can see your eyes in spite of your mask, and they are the eyes of a wicked fellow.”
And out of her own very beautiful eyes she shot him a killing glance.
There was only one note of discord in this brilliant scene. A little apart from the rest of the company sat a lady who, though she was handsomer and more richly dressed than any of the others, showed no signs of gaiety. She had watched the dancing but listlessly, and when any one addressed her she answered with few words and the faintest and most melancholy of smiles; nor would she touch the delicious refreshments which the servants, clad in the same gorgeous livery of crimson and gold as the negro porter, carried round on silver trays.
Her sadness distressed Harlequin, who considered the world a merry place and thought that every one else should be of the same opinion.
On the way back to the inn, whither, as Scaramouche had predicted, they sped with heavily laden pockets, he asked the musician who she was.
“Why, did you not know?” cried Scaramouche. “That was our hostess, the Lady Isabella.”
“The Lady Isabella!” exclaimed Harlequin. “You astound me, Scaramouche. What cause can she have for sadness? She is rich, she is beautiful, she has a thousand gay and elegant friends. Why should one so fortunate be sad?”
“You are young, Harlequin,” said Scaramouche.
“You have told me that before,” Harlequin retorted.
“The truth cannot be told too often,” said Scaramouche, in his most pompous manner. “And, being young,” he continued, “you as yet know little of those mischances against which neither wealth nor beauty nor friends are any protection.”
“What mischance has befallen the Lady Isabella?” Harlequin asked.
“That I cannot tell you,” replied Scaramouche. “It is some time since I was in Venice, and much happens here in a little while. Ask your friend Violetta. She always knows all the gossip.”
So Harlequin asked Violetta.
“Ah, poor Isabella!” said the girl, heaving a sigh. “Hers is, indeed, a hard lot. She was betrothed to one of the most noble and quite the handsomest young man in Venice. And he jilted her.”
“The scoundrel!” cried Harlequin. “What was his name?”
“Lelio,” said Violetta. “Such a lovely young man!”
“Lovely or not,” answered Harlequin, “I call him a scoundrel—to jilt so beautiful a lady.”
“I suppose he could not help it, poor fellow,” said Violetta. “He saw Columbine.”
“Who in the name of my great-grandmother is this Columbine?” cried Harlequin. “You mentioned her the day I arrived here, and I meant to get you to tell me about her, but I forgot.”
“You won’t forget Columbine when once you have seen her,” said Violetta. “It is Violetta who will be forgotten then.”
“I shall never forget my little Violetta,” Harlequin protested. “Never. Never. Never.” And after each “Never” he gave the girl a kiss.
Violetta laughed, and shook her pretty head.
“You are a nice boy, Harlequin,” she said. “You mean what you say, I am sure. But I know men. I have no doubt that Lelio meant to be faithful to Isabella—until he met Columbine.”
“What is there so wonderful about her?” Harlequin impatiently asked.
“Her charm is impossible to describe,” said Violetta. “But it is wonderful. She is more like a fairy than a mortal girl.... All the same, I would not be her for a thousand crowns. She leads the most wretched of lives—shut up all day in a poky little house with no one to talk to but her old curmudgeon of a father and that foolish Pierrot.”
“Who is her father?” cried Harlequin. “And who is Pierrot?”
“Ah!” said Violetta, “you are beginning to get interested. Columbine’s father is Pantaloon, the doctor; and Pierrot is his assistant. Though of what assistance he can be I am unable to imagine; for his wits are always in the clouds. Of course, like every one else, he is in love with Columbine, who only laughs at him.”
“Does she laugh at Lelio, too?” Harlequin asked.
“I can’t imagine any one laughing at Lelio,” said Violetta. “He is far too magnificent. Whether she loves him or not I cannot say; but whether she loves him or not, Pantaloon is determined that she should marry him.”
“Would he marry her against her will?” cried Harlequin.
“That he would,” Violetta replied. “Pantaloon is a proper old villain. He has always been a most unnatural father, keeping Columbine as close as though she were a nun. And since Lelio appeared on the scene he has been worse than ever. I suppose he is afraid she will fall in love with some one else. Of course it would be a fine thing for him to get a rich nobleman for a son-in-law. He would be able to shut up his books, and pour his physic into the gutter, which, I dare say, would be the best place for it.”
“Does he never let Columbine out of the house?” asked Harlequin.
“Never but in his own company. Sometimes he takes her for a little walk. I suppose he is afraid that she would else grow fat, and lose her beauty. They pass this way occasionally, for their house is only at the end of the street—the little white house at the corner.”
“Poor Columbine!” said Harlequin.
“Poor Harlequin,” said Violetta, “if ever he sees Columbine! And poor Violetta! I must make the most of you while I still have you.”
And she flung her arms round his neck.