Chapter 2

My rooms were in a wonderful old palace in the unfashionable quarter of
the Giudecca. From the windows, precisely opposite the Salute, I had the
finest view in Venice. That made them worth while. But the principal
charm of the location for me lay in the fact that here the ubiquitous
tripper rarely puts foot.

At a quarter to three I boarded a penny steamer from the Fondamenta
della Croce, the broad sunny quay in front of my palace, and crossed
over to the Molo. It was the first time in three years that I had used
this humble craft. The penny steamer, be it understood, was a part of
the new _régime_. It stood for hustle and democratic haste, the
qualities in which dear Jacqueline had found me so sadly lacking.

It gave me an immense satisfaction–this little voyage. I paid my soldo
to the shabby, uniformed conductor; I watched him uncurl the rope from
the post; I heard the steersman shout down his hollow tube the
directions to the engineer in his cubby-hole below; I seated myself
between an unshaven priest and a frowsy old woman with a basket of eels;
and it all appealed to me as fresh and interesting.

The world was very bright that afternoon. The sky had never seemed so
blue. There was something for me to do–what, I did not know precisely
(for I had not taken Jacqueline’s suggestion very seriously), but
somewhere I should find my task, and so win Jacqueline’s complete love
and regard. In the meanwhile I was to see her.

I leaped ashore, the first of the passengers, and walked briskly across
the Piazzetta. I saw them immediately at one of the little black tables
outside of Florian’s–St. Hilary in the center, and Mrs. Gordon and
Jacqueline on either side. St. Hilary was talking–as usual.

He evinced no surprise at seeing me. That was not his way. He did not
even shake hands. He merely saluted me with his rattan cane, and
continued to talk–as usual.

“Then it is the beauty of Venice that impresses you both?” he was
saying. “The beauty! I am weary of the cry. Let me tell you that there
is something infinitely more appealing to one than beauty in Venice, if
one knows precisely how to look for it and where.”

“And what is that?” asked Mrs. Gordon, as St. Hilary paused.

“It is its mystery,” he said impressively.

“Its mystery!” repeated vaguely Jacqueline’s aunt. “And why its
mystery?”

“Listen. I wish you to understand. It is night. You are quite alone–you
and your gondolier. And it is late–very late. All Venice is asleep. You
drift slowly down the Grand Canal. You hear nothing but the weird cry,
‘_stai-li oh_,’ as a gondolier approaches a corner. Above are the stars,
and in the dark waters about you are stars–a thousand of them–reflected
in a thousand rivulets. On this side and on that–dumb as the dead–are
the despoiled palaces. They suffer in silence. They are desecrated.
Their glory is departed. Some of them are lodging-houses, a
glass-factory, a post-office, a shop of cheap and false antiquities. But
Pesaro and Contarini once dwelt in them. Titian and Giorgione adorned
their walls. Within was the splendor of the Renaissance–cloth of
gold–priceless tapestries–bronzes–pictures–treasures of the East–of
Constantinople, of far-off Tartary. Everything of beauty in the whole
world found its way at some time within those barred gates.

“But where is it now–all that treasure, that beauty? Has every temple
been ravaged? Has the vandal prowled in the very holy of holies? Are
only the bare walls left? Only the very skeletons of all that pride of
the flesh? Or, somewhere, hidden perhaps centuries ago–in some dark
cranny–in some secret chamber–is there some forgotten masterpiece–some
beauty of cunning hand, some jewel patiently waiting for one to pluck it
from its obscurity? There must be. I know there is. Do you hear? I say I
_know_. There, madame, you have for me the mystery of Venice.”

“For you,” placidly replied Mrs. Gordon, “simply because you are a
dealer in antiquities. But why is Venice in that regard more mysterious
than other great cities?”

I thought Mrs. Gordon right. St. Hilary’s enthusiasm was far-fetched.
The dapper little man, with his black, snapping eyes, his face the color
of parchment, and lined as the palm of one’s hand, agile as a puppet on
strings, neat as a tailor’s model, was in earnest, absurdly in earnest,
in this idle, quaint fancy of his.

“Perhaps so,” he sighed. “Say that it is the passion of the collector
that talks and not the sober judgment of the dealer. And yet, and yet,
it is this hope that sends me to impossible places in Persia, to Burma.
Yes; it has brought me now to Venice.”

“To Venice!” I cried, astonished. “You allow yourself to be mastered by
a whim, as vague, as visionary as this?”

“My dear Hume, perhaps this whim, as you call it, is not vague or
visionary to me,” he replied quietly.

“But,” I expostulated, “you have no proofs of your treasure. Why is it
not behind the glass cases in St. Mark’s yonder? Why are not your
canvases in the museums? Why are not your antiquities in the shops?”

He looked at me with a strangely thoughtful expression.

“What we have never had we do not miss,” he mused. “No one missed the
Venus de Milo, or the Frieze of the Parthenon, or the Kohinoor. Yet we
call them to-day three of the wonders of the world.”

“Because there are but three of them,” I said impatiently. “I am afraid
you must look far and wide before you find the lucky fourth.”

“No doubt,” he said indifferently, “no doubt.” And then with apparent
irrelevance, “Now one would not think that crowns were so easily lost.”

“And have they been?” I asked curiously.

“Only the other day eight were found at one digging, not far from
Toledo. They had been lost for a thousand years. There was a find for
you. Then the crown of the Emperor of Austria, the holy crown, the
_szenta korona_, has been lost and found no less than three times. The
last time (not half a century ago) it disappeared after the defeat of
Kossuth. Some said it had been taken to London; some, that it was broken
up and the jewels sold in Constantinople. But for a few florins a
peasant returned it as mysteriously as it had disappeared. Foolish
peasant!”

“Mr. St. Hilary,” expostulated Mrs. Gordon severely, “you would not have
had him do otherwise?”

“I suppose not. But upon my word, sometimes I think that one might as
well go in for big things as for little. There is the _Gnaga Boh_, the
Dragon Lord, the most perfect ruby in the world. A half-witted creature,
the widow of King Theebaw, wears it. We are great friends, that old hag
and I, and I could have stolen it from her a thousand times. Some day
perhaps she will give it to me. And that notorious Indian prince,
Gwaikor of Baroda, has half a dozen stones of price. He, too, is a crony
of mine. Nothing would be easier than to steal one of them.”

“My dear Mr. St. Hilary,” again interrupted Mrs. Gordon, “surely you do
not contemplate burglary?”

“That is precisely the trouble,” he complained mournfully, “I have a
conscience. But findings are certainly keepings.”

“Ah, but it must be so difficult to find one’s findings,” said
Jacqueline quaintly.

“Not always. Have you never heard how the Hermes of Praxiteles was
discovered?”

She shook her head.

“Pausanias, an old Greek historian, wrote of that statue about a
thousand years ago–how he had seen it at Olympia. There was the passage
for all the world to read. He wrote precisely what there was to dig
for–precisely where one was to dig. But did any one believe him? Not for
a thousand years. But when, after a thousand years, a party of Germans
made up their minds that perhaps there was something in the story, and
dug in Olympia as he told them, there was their Hermes waiting for them.
You see one may have information as to where lies one’s treasure
sometimes. But so few of us have faith.”

“And have you your information as well as your abundant faith, St.
Hilary?” I inquired with mock solicitude.

At this idle question, his heavily lidded eyes opened wide. The pupils
dilated. A challenge flashed from their blue depths. I stared at him.
But almost immediately the heavy lids drooped again.

“All this is extremely interesting, Mr. St. Hilary,” said Jacqueline.
“But is it not rather wide from our Venetian palace? Why do we wait?”

“Simply, my dear young lady, because the owner happens to be of a
religious turn of mind; and at this moment, I believe, is confessing his
sins in San Marco’s yonder.”

“Who is the owner of the palace?” inquired Mrs. Gordon. “And why does he
wish to sell its contents?”

“The owner is a duke, the Duca da Sestos, and he wishes to sell because
he is as impecunious as the rest of his tribe.”

“A duke!” cried Mrs. Gordon. “How interesting! And what kind of a duke
is this gentleman?”

“Of the very flower of the Italian nobility. He is a prince of good
fellows, a dashing cavalier, handsome as a young god, and twenty-six.”

“How _very_ interesting,” repeated Mrs. Gordon, and looked at
Jacqueline.

The look troubled me. Jacqueline herself seemed annoyed at it. She
turned to St. Hilary.

“And have you any other treasures up your sleeve, Mr. St. Hilary?”

“My dear young lady, shall I give you an inventory of one collection I
know about? I promise to make all your mouths water.

“To begin with, there is a balas-ruby, known as El Spigo, or the ear of
corn. In the fifteenth century it was valued at the enormous sum of two
hundred and fifty thousand ducats. Then there is the jewel, El Lupo, the
wolf. It is one large diamond and three pearls. These two stones would
take the eye of the vulgar. But imagine a beryl, twice as big as your
thumb-nail, and on it the portrait of the pope, Clement VII, carved by
none other than the great Cellini.”

“I will buy it at any price,” cried Jacqueline.

“Then,” continued St. Hilary, touching his forefinger lightly, “there is
a pale-red ruby. The stone is indifferent. But it is a cameo, and the
likeness carved on it is that of Ludovico Il Moro, the Duke of Milan.
Domenico de’ Camei is the artist, and they called him de’ Camei because
he was the greatest carver of cameos in the world.”

“That is mine,” said Mrs. Gordon, her eyes on San Marco.

“To continue, there is a turquoise cameo, half as large as the palm of
your hand, and on it is carved the Triumph of Augustus. Thirty figures
are on that stone. There is an Isis head in malachite. The only other to
compare with it is in the Hermitage collection at St. Petersburg. Few
portraits of Beatrice d’Este exist. One of them is carved on one of my
stones, and is known as a diamond portrait. Imagine a thin plate of
diamonds, evenly polished on both sides with little facets on the edges.
The diamonds make, as it were, the glass frame of the portrait itself,
which is carved on lapis lazuli by the great Ambrosius Caradossa.”

“That,” I interrupted, “must be mine.”

“I must not forget two curious poison-rings–one with a sliding panel;
the other, still more dangerous, a lion with sharp claws–the claws
hollowed and communicating with a small poison-receptacle. We must be
careful how we finger that ring when we take our treasure out of the
casket. Yes; and the casket itself is worth looking at. By an ingenious
system of clockwork, the cover could not be opened in less than twelve
hours.”

“And where, where are all these treasures?” demanded Mrs. Gordon, taking
her eyes from the cathedral for the moment.

“My dear lady, so far as I know, they are here in Venice.”

“In Venice!” I cried.

“But, unfortunately, they disappeared nearly five hundred years ago.”

There was a chorus of disappointment and reproaches. Mrs. Gordon again
impatiently turned her attention to San Marco.

“And there is absolutely no clue to them?” demanded Jacqueline.

“No clue, dear lady,” he murmured, spreading wide his hands.

“But at least tell us whose the gems were?” I asked.

“Ah, yes, that at least I can tell you. The gems belonged to Beatrice
d’Este, Duchess of Milan and wife of Ludovico Il Moro. She pawned them
to the Doge of Venice to raise money for her husband’s army.”

“And they have absolutely disappeared?” I insisted.

“As if they had never existed. But they do exist, and here in Venice.
Think of it! In Venice. And now, perhaps, my dear Hume, you can
understand the fascination of Venice for me.” He sighed deeply.

“But why are you reminded of them so particularly this afternoon?” I
persisted curiously.

“Because we are going to see the box that is said to have contained the
casket.”

“In the palace of our duke?” asked Jacqueline’s aunt.

St. Hilary bowed. “In the palace of our duke, madame.”

“And how did it come there?” I asked in my turn.

“It is said that the duke’s ancestor, a great goldsmith in Venice––”

He ended his sentence abruptly. “Here comes our duke,” he said.

I looked up. The dealer in antiquities had not exaggerated his charms.
He was tall. His figure was as noble as his carriage. His hand rested
lightly on his sword-hilt. His bold eyes, of a piercing blue, searched
Jacqueline’s lovely face. He had the all-conquering air of a young god.
His eyes wandered to mine. We looked steadily at each other. We measured
each other. Instinctively I distrusted him.

St. Hilary made the introductions. “I have asked my friends to go with
me. I have not taken too great a liberty?” he said in French.

“Not at all,” assured the duke. “I am only sorry I have kept the ladies
waiting. My launch is waiting at the Molo. Shall we go at once?”