“You are mistaken,” I said calmly. “You are counting the ditch that surrounds the Giardino Reale. The seventh canaletto is the Rio di Bocca. And the sixtieth palace from the junction of the Rio di Bocca and the Grand Canal will be the house of the landmark. What palace is that? Don’t tell me that that is torn down.”
“No, this one exists. It is called the Palazzo Fortunato. Come, it is time for us to do something more strenuous than talking. We will test your theory, and I think it a fairly reasonable one at last. But first of all, a bite at Florian’s. It is three o’clock. We may get no dinner.”
I had unconsciously taken the lead since my great discovery. Now I hesitated. Though I had broken my tryst with Jacqueline, I had intended seeing her this afternoon before we actually began our search. But I could not let St. Hilary begin his explorations without me. A few hours sooner or later, I persuaded myself, would not make much difference.
I know now how specious were my arguments. A woman’s love is not to be treated lightly. It is the most sacred and precious thing in the world, and she knows that it is. It does not come and go at one’s beck and call. It burns brightly so long as the flame is fed; to quench that flame is dangerous, and it is not always easy to revive it.
“I am quite ready to go with you,” I said soberly. “My gondolier is waiting below. We will let him take us to the Molo and then dismiss him. We want no witnesses or possible spies.”
“Excellent,” he murmured. “And bring along your Bible; that must be our chart and compass in our voyage of discovery.”
CHAPTER XXI
Venetian Marco Polo himself, wide-eyed and eager, toiling across burning wastes to the Great Khan of far-off Cathay, was not more imbued with the very spirit of adventure than were St. Hilary and I that April afternoon, as we set forth on our little voyage of discovery in a prosaic gondola.
We had lunched at the Grundewald. We rose with a certain deliberation, and walked toward the Molo. The band was thundering out a Strauss waltz. The Piazza was filled with its usual laughing, chattering crowd, eating and drinking at the hundreds of round little tables that overflowed a quarter of the square.
I could not help thinking what a sensation I should cause if the great throng was suddenly to be stilled, while from the balcony up there by the four bronze horses I cried aloud for all the square to hear that we two adventurers of the twentieth century were about to lay bare one of the mysteries of Venice–that we were to bring forth to the light of day a marvelous treasure that had been hid for nearly half a thousand years. How they would howl me into a shamed silence with their jeers and laughter! And supposing that I could tell them the very hiding-place, would one of all those hundreds, even the poorest, take the trouble to go and see? Would the hunchbacked bootblack in the Arcade there, gnarled and twisted with the cold of winter and the heat of summer? Would the Jewish shopkeepers, the antiquarian in the library, the tourists, who had come three thousand miles to feast their eyes on wonders? Not the most visionary would stir in his seat. Only St. Hilary and I, it appeared, in the whole world were absolute fools this afternoon.