“Shall we now proceed to chapter two?” he asked presently. “May I assume
that I have awakened your interest?”
“You may certainly assume that.” I smiled at his smug assurance.
“The next extract, then, from our Diarist is two years later, December,
1501, to be precise. In the meanwhile, it seems the Doge had regained
the confidence of the republic. At any rate he had evidently not been
removed from office.
“‘This day was erected a tablet in the Frari to Giovanni da Sestos, who
died some six weeks since. He was an incomparable artist in gold and
precious stones, the greatest that Venice has known, but famous even
beyond his just merits as an artist by reason of the mystery of the
wonderful casket and the more wonderful gems. And people are saying
(though I myself have not seen it) that he hath left a clock that is a
greater marvel than the lost casket itself, which only the jeweler and
his son (beside the Doge) set eyes on before it was stolen. And certain
ones who have seen this clock (before it was broken) declare that the
clock of our Piazza, though infinitely larger, is but a puerile thing
compared to it.
“‘When first imprisoned in his own house, Giovanni utterly despaired,
for he was watched by spies day and night, and none might converse with
him without their being present. For days he did not move, but sat moody
and sullen, gazing at nothing with his terrible, burning eyes.
“‘So he lived for many weeks. Then one day he leaped to his feet and
shouted aloud for his tools. Though his adored casket had been stolen
from him, he swore he would make something more marvelous than that
before death came on him. And because he was so great an artist, not
even the Doge dared to deprive Venice of any wonder that he might make,
though he had sworn that Giovanni should never again breathe the fresh
air of the Piazza. So they gave to him his tools, and for certain hours
during the day his son was permitted to aid him, since he suffered no
other to enter his workshop. Two years the father and son labored at
this clock until it was quite finished.
“‘And when it was finished, Giovanni sent his son to that Doge who had
caused him to make the casket and had since imprisoned him, beseeching
him to come to him with all haste, for he had somewhat to say to him,
and to show him. The Doge went straightway to his house. For he thought
he was to hear some confession as to the missing casket, since he
believed steadfastly that it was the goldsmith who had caused it to be
stolen, and no other.
“‘Giovanni met him with all ceremony, and, taking him courteously by the
hand, led him to his workshop, where stood the wonderful clock.
“‘When the Doge saw this clock he was filled with anger, for the three
bronze figures reclining about the face of the clock were hideous images
of Giovanni’s most bitter foes. Two of them were a rival goldsmith and
the jailer who had fed him when he was a prisoner in the _piombi_. But
the third and most hideous of all was the Doge himself, such a miracle
of ugliness and horror that to look on it would make a man shudder. But
because he wished to hear what Giovanni had to say, the Doge spoke
Giovanni fair, and declared himself delighted with his ingenuity. For
they say (though, as I have written before, neither have I seen the
clock nor have I known any that have) that at every hour a door opened,
and some story out of the history of Venice was acted.
“‘And as each hour went by the Doge became wearied of watching the
antics of the clock as the hours struck. But Giovanni compelled him to
be patient and besought him to see the antics of the figures of all of
the twelve hours. Between each hour the Doge kept inquiring of the
goldsmith if he had anything to tell him. And each time that the
question was asked the goldsmith laughed boisterously, and said, “Though
I did tell thee, thou hast not ears to hear.” This answer he made
several times, till at last the Doge, seeing at last that he was being
ridiculed, arose in anger and cried: “For the last time, Messer
Giovanni, hast thou anything to say to me?” And still the goldsmith
answered with jeers, “Though I told thee, thou hast not ears to hear,”
and would say no more.
“‘Then, because he had been answered in this rude fashion many times,
the Doge could no longer restrain his passion. He lifted his staff, and
furiously smote off the three figures of the clock, and in doing so the
clock fell violently to the earth, and it was broken in its insides, and
never more will it strike hour, so at least I am told.
“‘When Giovanni saw that his marvelous clock was broken, he raved like a
madman, and spat on the Doge, and belabored him with his fists so that
he was compelled to take flight from the house. And as he fled, the
goldsmith called after him very bitterly: “Did I not say thou wert a
fool? For, though the casket were lost, did I not make a greater marvel?
But thou canst not understand its divine beauty and wonder. And now, by
my oath, though I knew the secret place of the casket, yet shouldst thou
never know, seeing that thou hast broken my clock.”
“‘As soon as the Doge reached the Ducal Palace, he bade the captain of
the inquisitorial guard fetch Giovanni. He determined that he would once
more put him to extremest tortures, for he remembered the words: “And
now, by my oath, though I knew the secret place of the casket, yet
shouldst thou never know.” But when they reached the house of Giovanni
they found both his son and himself lying dead, side by side, and by the
look of their faces they saw that they had taken poison. And now the
mystery of the casket will never be known. As for the clock, it is said
that it had an evil spirit, and no man cares whether the Inquisition
hath destroyed it or hidden it.’”
St. Hilary closed the slim little book and gently laid it on the table.
During the latter part of his recital I had risen from my seat and was
walking about the room. Now I sat at the table opposite him, my hands
stretched out limply before me. I stared at him as the Guest must have
stared at the Ancient Mariner. For the Mariner’s story was of things
that were past and done with. St. Hilary’s story was of things to come.
When I spoke, it was almost in a whisper, as if I were saying something
too extravagant to be spoken out loud.
“Then you believe, St. Hilary, that the clock holds the secret? You
believe that if you could discover the secret you would have a clue to
the D’Este jewels? I see. Da Sestos was the thief, and when he saw that
he was never to feast his eyes on the glorious fruit of his rascality,
when he knew he was being watched night and day, he sank into the apathy
of despair, until–until––”
I raised both my arms and stretched them out as if I were groping for
something.
“Until?” repeated St. Hilary mockingly.
“Before heaven, St. Hilary,” I cried, laughing loudly, “are you and I
the two maddest men in Venice this evening?”
“On the contrary,” he answered carelessly, flicking the ash of his
cigarette daintily, “I begin to think I have made no mistake in choosing
you for my companion. But the facts first. You are ready for chapter
three?”
“Your own theories about this extraordinary mystery? Yes, yes.”
The little man threw himself back in my armchair, a smirk of
satisfaction on his wizened face. There was something of the actor about
St. Hilary; he loved an appreciative audience, and he was determined to
make the most of the present one.