IN WHICH MY ANXIETY ABOUT CORDÉLIA’S POLYGON IS REVIVED
Surdon had engaged a suite of rooms for us at the Hotel Danieli on
the Riva degli Schiavoni. It was in this hotel, it seems, that Alfred
de Musset fell ill and learned the treachery of his lady love, George
Sand. Cordélia heard the story of this lamentable event on the second
day after our arrival, and it seemed unduly to depress her. I hated the
bungler and his story and wanted to leave the hotel. But Cordélia had
taken a fancy to it, and I had to give way to her.
One day I found her with a book in her hand. It was de Musset’s
correspondence with this George Sand. I read a few lines and threw the
book out of the window, went over to my beloved and embraced her, and
told her that it was a crime to spoil our perfect happiness by opening
the door to disagreeable thoughts about two persons who did not know
how to love.
Was I not right?
“Oh, my dear, now you are preventing me from reading,” she made answer.
“Think, Hector, you have already refused to let me visit the museums.”
“Heaven forbid, Cordélia, that I should refuse you anything whatever,”
I exclaimed. “I am your slave as you know. If you are really keen on
seeing some pictures, we’ll go this afternoon to your museum. Would you
like me to countermand our trip to the Lido?”
“That would be too much,” she returned, smiling. “We’ll go to the Lido
for dinner and supper. All the same I shall be glad if you will show a
little more eagerness to see the ‘wonders of art.’”
“Lord above, what string are you harping on now?” I exclaimed. “Did we
not go, as was proper to the Doge’s Palace and see the dungeon in which
Marino Faliero was imprisoned?”
“Oh, Hector, it amused you to slip our cards into the secret letter-box
which was used at one time for anonymous accusations to the Council of
Ten. And you call that seeing the ‘wonders of art!’”
“Yes, and I denounced the proprietor of our hotel, accusing him of
trying to poison us! You had a good laugh at the time, you must admit.”
She was not laughing now. What new shadow was passing over her brow?
She seemed carried away by a depression of spirits which rendered her
more beautiful still, but which filled me with alarm, because it was
akin to sadness. And, indeed, her eyes were bedewed with tears. I threw
myself at her feet.
“I have hurt your feelings,” I exclaimed.
“No, let me cry,” she returned in a broken and far away voice. “Tears
that we owe to the emotion caused by beautiful things are sweet tears.
I remember those happy moments when we left our gondola and entered the
church of Santa Maria della Salute. Just think of the lagoon, the grand
canal—all that marvel of walls and towers and opalescent water.”
“A walk in the Salute!” I cried, making no effort to conceal my
amazement. “We were never together in the Salute, dear.”
“Oh you don’t mean it,” she protested. “We went through the church
thoroughly.”
Thereupon she took a great deal of trouble to describe it to me. And
then suddenly, observing my bewilderment, she came to a stop, and
declined to say another word about her visit to the Salute. She went as
red as a cherry; and I left her in a state of profound uneasiness.
I felt the need of being alone to ponder over what had come to pass.
While we were at Venice we had not parted from each other. I left her
sometimes in her room, but I remained in the hotel. She could not,
therefore, have visited the Salute.
I hurriedly made my way there, and I was dumbfounded to discover that
her description of the church was accurate.
I was intensely alarmed, for I could no longer doubt that Cordélia’s
polygon was beginning to play its tricks again. While she was supposed
to be asleep her polygon was wandering about the Salute! I recalled to
mind Dr. Thurel’s words:
“Just as cases are quoted in which the subject discovers in a dream,
memories placed therein without his cognizance by his polygon while
awake—the O being then in a state of abstraction—so there are numerous
instances in which the subject while awake discovers memories placed
therein, without his cognizance, by the polygon which has been at work
while he was asleep—the O being lulled to sleep or under the influence
of suggestion.”
When I landed from the gondola and found myself again on the Riva degli
Schiavoni I could not help exclaiming:
“The misery of it! It’s that confounded polygon again. Still we in
Venice are a long way from Patrick.”
I had no sooner uttered these words than a voice behind me exclaimed:
“You make a mistake, monsieur. Patrick is here!”