The sun was just tipping the dome of the Salute as I fell asleep in my
chair. My compact with St. Hilary promised great things. It meant
action–a fascinating clue to follow, whether it led us to the jewels of
the Doge or not. And if this dry chronicle of the past should prove to
be no colorless legend, but a living fact, palpitating with human
interest, I should have material for a book indeed. A legend of the
Renaissance reincarnated in the twentieth century–that must appeal to
Jacqueline no less than to me. Besides, the solving of this mystery, if
solution there were, or the proving it to be but an empty fable, would
certainly demand those qualities she believed I lacked so sadly. In
everything this quest must be to my advantage.
It was eight o’clock before I could get St. Hilary into a gondola. As we
were rowed rapidly to the Molo, an indescribable elation of spirits
buoyed me up. Three years had slipped from my shoulders–three years of
inertia and weariness. I was happy, and I did not play the fool and
analyze too deeply my happiness.
Perhaps the warm, delicious breeze that came in puffs, laden with the
scent of oleanders and roses from the royal gardens, had its influence;
and the deep-blue sky, with the pearly clouds drifting slowly over San
Giorgios, and the glorious sun, flashing on every tip and spire, and
reflected silver-gray and rose-colored in the millions of little waves
that danced and sparkled in a very ecstasy of color. For the rain had
ceased. The sullen clouds were gone; the muddy streams; the discolored
damp stones. Venice was again the enchanted city of fairy architecture,
floating in the intangible air.
One would have thought it difficult to believe this wonderful story in
the full light of day, on the Piazza here, flooded with sun, with the
gondoliers smoking and breaking out into snatches of song, with the
tourists already astir, and the guides from San Marco’s already on the
alert for them. Last night in my chambers, with the curtains drawn and
the lights of Venice shining mystically in the distance, there might
have been an excuse for one’s imagination getting a little the better of
one. But with the morning should have come sober skepticism. I can only
say that there were two reasons that forbade that: one that I wished to
believe; the other, that St. Hilary did believe.
A dozen steps on the Piazzetta, and we saw that Marruchi was not yet
opened, so we strolled toward Florian’s for our morning coffee. As we
passed under the Arcade, St. Hilary paused at a bookseller’s shop
beneath the Libreria Vecchia. I noticed carelessly in passing that the
window was filled with copies of a book just published.
“Have you looked into that book yet?” asked St. Hilary, as he bowed to
the bookseller within.
“No,” I answered, taking my seat at one of the round tables. “I did not
even read its title.”
“It is called Annali dell’ Inquisizione in Venezia. It was published
about a month ago. Organia and Rosen have had it in their windows for a
fortnight at least.”
“I have no doubt that that fact has some pertinency,” I said irritably.
“But before you explain just in what way, suppose you answer a few
questions that naturally occurred to me while you were asleep in my
chair last night.”
“Well?”
“Why the deuce do you want me to go to St. Petersburg? Why do you intend
going to Amsterdam? How did you come to know about the Diary of Sanudo?
How did you guess that the clock was in the da Sestos palace? Or did you
not guess? Surely we are not the first to attempt to solve the secret of
the hours? And even if no one has yet attempted it (and that seems
incredible), is it not possible that the clock may be beyond repair, so
that we can not fathom the significance of the automata, if there be any
significance? And, lastly, how do you know that you have _the_ clock?”
“If you had read that book in the shop there, some of your questions
might have been answered,” retorted St. Hilary placidly.
I held the coffee-pot suspended in mid-air. “It mentions the clock?”
“It does.”
“Then it’s there for all the world to read–the duke, for instance!”
The thought was rather startling.
“I suppose so. Had I known before I saw you last night that you were to
be my criminal partner in pursuit of the casket and the gems, I should
have brought that book as well as the Diary which I happened to have in
my pocket. As it is, you might just step over to Rosen’s and buy a copy.
You will find it an amusing book during your long journey to St.
Petersburg.”
I looked at him with some annoyance.
“You take so much for granted,” I remonstrated. “I shall need some
persuasion. You know, I suppose, that it’s quite necessary for me to get
a passport to travel in Russia. And as to our criminal pursuit, I take
it that findings are keepings.”
“Very true,” he answered, looking at me cynically. “Beatrice, who wore
some of our gems when she went into that cathedral over there, is dust
these four hundred years and more. The line of the D’Estes and Sforzas
is extinct. There is not a man or woman in Venice or Italy who may boast
that a drop of the Doge’s blood runs in their veins. Legally, I suppose,
the state––”
“Oh, the state!” I sniffed contemptuously. “I don’t mind putting my
claims against the state!”
“Brave man! But let me remind you, my squeamish friend, that it may be
necessary for you and me to use the jimmy before we get possession of
those gems. Do you think we shall find them on the pavement? Hardly!
They are hidden in one of these hundreds of palaces, and they will not
be given up for the asking.”
“I suppose not,” I admitted reluctantly. “All the same, it has an ugly
sound, the word criminal.”
“I warned you that this was no task for the dilettante.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” I replied hastily. “But I am going to show you that
I can be a bit unscrupulous, as well as you, on occasions.”
“That’s better,” replied he, grinning at me. “Now about that book. As I
said, it mentions da Sestos and his clock. But the Inquisition of
Venice, I need not remind you, concerned itself not so much with the
religious conscience of the individual as with affairs of the state. It
is da Sestos, the criminal, who comes into this book; and only
incidentally, da Sestos, the atheist, who made a clock that was
inhabited by an evil spirit.”
“And the story of Sanudo is substantiated?”
“Fairly well. And in this book we learn what became of the clock after
his death. It was forfeited by the Inquisition as a thing unclean. It
was hidden away in the Ducal Palace for nearly two hundred years.”
“And afterward?”
“In a long foot-note the editor of the Annals tells us that at the entry
of Napoleon it was looted by a captain of artillery, who afterward sold
it to a dealer in Paris. It remained in the shop of the dealer for
nearly half a century, when a learned antiquarian, who was writing an
elaborate monograph on automaton clocks, came across it. This
antiquarian, our editor tells us, bought the clock and studied it. How
it came into the possession of the uncle of the present Duke da Sestos
is not known. This uncle, as the duke himself told us the other day,
lived in Paris. He recognized the timepiece as that made by his remote
ancestor nearly four hundred years ago.”
“Recognized it? But how?”
“Nothing could be easier. In the first place, the name of the maker is
on every clock. Then he may have been familiar with the monograph of the
antiquarian. Or the antiquarian may himself have brought the clock to
the attention of the duke. It is even possible that, as a Venetian, he
may have read the Diary of Sanudo. At any rate, he sent the clock back
to Venice.”
“Did he guess the significance of the automata, do you suppose?”
“It seems probable that he did,” replied St. Hilary thoughtfully.
“Otherwise, why should the clock have been hidden in the secret chamber?
It is likely that he told the father of old Luigi to guard it
carefully.”
“And does the editor himself hint at the automata’s having any
significance?” I asked, alarmed.
“Luckily not. He dismisses the whole subject as a myth, a mere
superstition of the middle ages.”
“All the same,” I said, “if we could get hold of a copy of that
monograph we might have a hint or two.”
“Very true,” quietly answered the dealer. “That is why you are going to
St. Petersburg. The monograph is in the Imperial Library. There is only
one copy known to be extant, our editor assures me. Useful man, our
editor.”
“Very,” and I laughed shortly. “But what if the duke gets wind of this
precious legend, and feels curious enough to try his hand at solving the
riddle? If, for instance, he asks Mrs. Gordon for his clock again, we
shall have a rival contestant for honors in mysteries.”
“That is why we have no time to lose. Ah, the shutters of the
clock-maker are down. At last we can examine your clock, and we shall be
lucky if he hasn’t ruined it,” grumbled St. Hilary. He lifted the awning
of the Arcade, and we stepped out into the glare of the Piazza.
Marruchi met me with apologies. No; he had not attempted to repair the
clock. He had not even taken it to pieces. The mechanism was too
intricate. In fact, he knew of but one clock-maker in the world to whom
it might safely be entrusted.
“And he lives at Amsterdam,” concluded St. Hilary complacently. “And
now, perhaps, you understand, Hume, why it is necessary for one of us to
go to Amsterdam?”
I hesitated. I remembered how he had attempted to obtain possession of
the clock by subterfuge. How could I be sure that his sending me off to
St. Petersburg was not a ruse to get me conveniently out of the way?
Meanwhile he would have the clock, and when he had mastered its secret,
he could return it to me with the assurance that it was but a myth after
all. “Why should I not go to Amsterdam, and you to St. Petersburg?” That
was the question that I might very pertinently have asked him. But I did
not. I had promised to trust him. I trusted him now.
“Can you catch the afternoon express, Hume? It leaves at three-thirty
and makes connections for St. Petersburg.”
“I suppose so,” I admitted reluctantly, “though I hardly relish our
rushing off to the ends of the earth in this way.”
“Oh, you of little faith,” he cried testily. “If you are really going
into this affair heart and soul with me, you will need a great deal more
patience than a journey to St. Petersburg involves. As to my going to
Amsterdam, you heard Marruchi say there is just one clock-maker in the
world clever enough to take our clock to pieces and put it together
again without bungling.”
“Very well,” I assented soberly, and led the way to the Bureau
Internationale des Wagon-lits to secure my sleeping-berth. But I must
say St. Hilary’s characterization of me was justified. I had faith
enough to be curious about the clock here in Venice. But long and
tedious journeys to Amsterdam and St. Petersburg–that was quite another
matter.