“E dove?” demanded the gondolier, after we had taken our seats.
“Canalazzo,” I cried, “e presto, molto, molto presto.”
“Si, si, signore,” he cried with enthusiasm, scenting a generous tip.
The sun, just dipping behind the dome of the Salute, blazed fiercely, but the awning of our gondola was thrown back. Swiftly we swept down the sun-kissed stream, cleaving the lake of gold. The great palaces on either side, ablaze with riotous color, seemed as unreal as a painted picture. What had we to do with this mysterious Venice, this enchantress of the seas, holding herself aloof in melancholy disdain? Like curious savages, we were to prowl in her very holy of holies. We were to despoil her of her last glorious treasure, that she had guarded so jealously these hundreds of years.
The fantasy burst as a bubble in thin air. Behind us raced a boatful of trippers, the two oarsmen exerting every effort to urge on their craft to the railway station. There were the English père de famille; the comfortable mamma with a chick on either side. And about them were piled high bandboxes and shawls, portmanteaus and carryalls. It was the twentieth century after all. It was quite fitting that we should be seeking to reap where we had not sown.
We passed the Grand Hotel. Mrs. Gordon, Jacqueline, and the duke were seated on the balcony. I raised my hat mechanically. The duke returned the greeting with a flourish. Mrs. Gordon was suddenly interested in the customs-house opposite. Jacqueline smiled, but her greeting would have been as cordial to the concierge of her hotel. My face burned. I wished to tell St. Hilary to continue the search without me, and yet I hesitated. Even now, one nod to the gondolier and I could be landed at the steps; but I hesitated, and in five seconds we had passed. Before I had wholly recovered my presence of mind we were at the Rio di Bocca.
Our gondolier uttered his weird cry of warning. The gondola turned the corner sharply. We were in cool depths. The smell of damp mortar, that indefinable moist smell of the canaletti of Venice smote our nostrils. We skirted an old wall, bulging outward with decrepitude; a narrow quay, bathed in sunlight; the barred windows of a palace, blackness and gloom within. A barge of bricks was poled slowly past us, then a funeral catafalque. A hotel omnibus just escaped collision. I saw it all, but I saw it all unheeding. Three years of selfish ease and irresponsibility had left me incapable of quick decision at this critical moment. And now another opportunity to become reconciled to Jacqueline had passed. I had raised one more barrier between us.
St. Hilary shouted sharply to the gondolier. We came to a sudden stop.
We were at the sixtieth palace, and its façade was as bare as the sheet of an unsigned hotel register.
“So again we have come on a fool’s errand,” he groaned.