CHAPTER XXV

A moment we listened. St. Hilary lighted a cigarette.

“Idiot,” he chuckled, “to intrude on a doting couple. There might have been kisses, who knows?”

“But why did she not recognize you sooner?”

“Because I happen to have a figure that is not unlike her swain’s, I suppose. As to my voice, have I not heard many times the squeak of the noble Conti, and am I not a mimic on occasions?”

“But surely I do not resemble the other noble Conti?”

“In that bulging robe, with that beard and mask, you might be equally an angel of light or the very devil himself. I am glad you had wit enough not to speak.”

“And now?” I asked impatiently.

“After we have slipped the bolt of that little gate in the garden wall over there, we will make our way up the tower and hide until the guests have gone. We dare not trust ourselves in the 254palace again after our escapade. That gate opens on the side street. We shall be glad to avail ourselves of it later.”

We were about to leave the arbor when a Punchinello strolled down the garden path, a poodle at his heels. He was humming a French song, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He passed by a pergola of grapevines without once turning in our direction. Recognizing the dog, I guessed the identity of the clown. It was the man who had been tampering with Pietro’s honesty a night or two before. His presence at the palace was alarming, but I said no word to St. Hilary of my fears. Spies or no spies, I was going to find that casket to-night!

When the garden was again deserted I drew the bolts of the gate, then followed St. Hilary up the steps of the tower. All the guests were at supper, and we met no one.

At the summit of the tower the sides were wide open to the sky. A low parapet ran around the sides. The roof rose to an apex some ten or twelve feet above. Two broad timbers, just out of reach, stretched across the roof. Rusty rings were still embedded in them. In former days this had been a bell-tower. I pointed out the timbers to St. Hilary.

“There is our hiding-place if any one comes. 255Could you reach those beams if I gave you a back?”

He did not answer. He was looking down the dark stairway. He rose and leaped on the parapet.

“It is time to make the attempt. People are coming up the stairs.”

In five seconds we were lying side by side.

“Whatever happens, you must not betray yourself. If you do, remember, you betray me, and you promised to stand by me, no matter what happened.”

I nodded; then, peering over, I saw my mask lying on the bench where I had thrown it down. I pointed it out to St. Hilary.

“Shall I risk jumping down for it?”

“No, no. There is no logical clue between a mask on a bench and two gentlemen playing eavesdroppers a few feet above.”

There was a rustle of silk; a faint sigh of a woman catching her breath; then a ripple of light laughter.

“We are not the first, duke, to enjoy this wonderful view,” cried a clear voice.

I leaned recklessly over. Jacqueline was holding my mask toward Duke da Sestos. And they were alone.

I had just given my promise to St. Hilary, 256but I had not reckoned on this. To leap down now would mean that I must betray him; to remain, that I must listen. I was in an agony of indecision. Again I hesitated, and again I was to pay a bitter penalty.

“Oh, it is worth the climb,” cried Jacqueline enthusiastically. “That blaze of lights is the Piazza San Marco, of course. And the long line to the north?”

“Are the lights of the Riva,” answered the moody voice of the duke.

His tone frightened me. I felt that he was regarding her with burning glances. Jacqueline must have noticed it had she not been enraptured with the fairy scene before her.

“The little splashes of light here and there are the campos, of course. But the Grand Canal! I never dreamed of anything so wonderful. Look, it has just one broad band of moonlight across its gloom. How fearfully tragic it must look on a cloudy night! But now, it is beautiful. And the tiny flickers of dancing light from the lanterns on the gondolas make the effect magical. Is it any wonder that, after all, one is a slave to the beauty of this Venice? Perhaps,” she added dreamily, “one might have more ignoble dreams and ambitions than to live always in the midst of this beauty. I believe 257there is nothing on earth so beautiful as this scene.”

“There is yourself,” a hoarse voice broke in on her revery. “There is yourself, and to-night you are more beautiful and exquisite than the very citadels of Paradise.”

I trembled. It was to come, then, this declaration of love; and I must listen. It was now too late to descend. I could only pray that they would soon go. To my joy, this time Jacqueline did recognize the danger of her lingering.

“And below, what a mass of gondolas! How little did I think that I should ever go to a ball in a gondola! I can not thank you enough for bringing me here. But my aunt is waiting at the next landing. She will be wondering.”

“No,” broke in the duke’s hoarse voice, “she will not.”

“And why not, please?” demanded Jacqueline.

“I have told Mrs. Gordon that I must see you alone. You have avoided me all the evening–all the day–ever since Mr. Hume insulted me by denying that I had found the casket. And now that I have my opportunity it shall not escape me.”

“If my aunt has given you permission to detain me here against my will, she has gone beyond 258her right. That she is not waiting for me makes it still more necessary to descend.”

“You must not go. You will not be so cruel. You shall not go. You shall not go, by heaven until you have told mo why you refuse to listen to me!”

“Do you think that my regard for you will grow stronger because you detain me here against my will?” Jacqueline asked indignantly.

“My glorious one, you are beautiful when you are angry,” he cried passionately. “I do not forget that you are only a nun for the hour. Beneath those funereal robes beats a heart of passion and fire like mine. Like mine, do you hear? It is time you were wooed and won.”

“I hardly understand you, Duke da Sestos.”

Even now there was no fear in her voice.

“Oh, you understand, my white dove,” he continued in a tone that made my blood boil. “You understand perfectly. Even in America, I suppose, young girls do not climb towers alone at night without first of all counting the cost.”

I had heard quite enough. St. Hilary and his casket might go to the devil. I gathered up my cumbersome robes. St. Hilary, his black eyes glowing into mine a few feet away, made a fierce but cautious gesture to lie still If I did so it was not because of St. Hilary, but consideration 259for my own dignity. Jacqueline would never forgive me if I appeared now, I thought. And by his next words the duke seemed to have come to his senses at last.

“Heavens,” he cried despairingly, “I am mad! I have angered you. Forgive me. Say that you forgive me. You shall go when you have said that.”

“If I forgive you,” answered Jacqueline in a cold voice, “it is because I have failed to understand you.”

“But tell me, before we go, why have you promised only to deny? I have been patient. I have endured all. But now, to-night, under this soft moonlight, under these burning stars, with Venice, the Queen of Loves, to listen, I tell you that I love you. Pledge your love to me–here–to-night.”

“I insist that you let me go.”

“In one moment. Tell me why you refuse to keep your word? Is it because that Mr. Hume made me ridiculous before you? If he had not interfered, you would have loved me. I would have made you love me.”

“Really, Duke da Sestos, to be quite exact, you should say if you had not interfered.”

“But when once you know what I know, when I have told you that he is a thief––”

260“Thief!” cried my dear Jacqueline with scorn.

“Is he not a thief who breaks into your rooms, who binds you hand and foot, who steals from you––”

“You dare say that he has done that?” cried Jacqueline, lingering in spite of herself.

“I dare say to his face that he has done just that,” replied the duke hotly. “He has done more than that. He has stolen your heart from me, and for that I shall never forgive him. Never. But I shall yet win you. You are mine. Give me my reward. I implore you. I command you. You are in my power. One kiss, and you shall go. I swear it. No, no, you shall not escape me.”

She screamed. I lifted myself on my elbow to leap down. It was impossible to stay there longer. My robe caught on a nail. While I struggled to free myself the duke saw me, and as I alighted he struck me a violent blow.

He flung himself upon me and pinioned my arms. I struggled furiously, but he had me at a disadvantage. I was down. The moonlight fell on my face. He recognized me.

“Bah, it is our American friend; it is your Mr. Hume,” he cried, with a contempt that was too careless for indignation. There was almost 261a note of good-nature in his contempt, as if I were a loathsome but amusing species of reptile.

I rose panting to my feet. Hell itself can have no greater torment than I suffered then.

“Eavesdropper!” cried the duke, regarding me cynically.

Jacqueline looked at me in horror. “You were listening? And you made no effort to help me?”

The words were not spoken in reproach. It was as if she had uttered a simple truth that was convincing, hopelessly convincing.

I was silent. I could say nothing without betraying St. Hilary.

“Is every one low and despicable? Is there no honor in any one? You–my aunt–” she groped her way toward the stairs.

For the third time the duke and I looked into each others eyes. He was smiling still in his amused, cynical way, but thoughtfully, too.

“So,” he said at last, “you really were listening? Or had you other motives?”

“No,” I said, quite truthfully. “You know perfectly well that I was not listening.”

“I thought so. I am so sorry that I have disturbed Mr. Hume. And now to-night, I suppose, it is useless to keep an eye on him longer. 262There will be no adventures to-night, I am afraid.”

There was a note of real regret in his voice. Had he really known that I was here, or was he lying as usual? In any case, if I could convince him that for to-night, at least, I should make no further attempt to find the casket, he would leave St. Hilary in peace.

“You have beaten me to-night, it is true, but there are other nights. Remember that there are yet five days.”

We descended the tower. I walked deliberately through the palace. The duke pretended not to watch me, but I knew that I should be followed. It was some minutes before my gondola came; for the last of the guests were leaving. I went at once to my rooms. I lighted the gas and exchanged the mummery in which I was clad for a suit of tweeds. Then, with an ulster and golf-cap for St. Hilary, I turned out the gas, made my way out into the garden at the rear, and in ten minutes had pushed open the little gate in the garden wall.