A clock in the church of San Salvatore was striking the hour of seven as St. Hilary and I, after bidding good night to our friendly priest, crossed the Campo. Our search for that night was ended. I was free to see Jacqueline at last. Promising to call for my friend early the next morning, I hastened to the Grand Hotel.
It had been a wonderful day. After weeks of futile wandering, we were going straight to the goal. But Jacqueline? Would she forgive me for breaking my appointment, even though I was at last to bring her the casket? I had well-nigh drawn from her the gentle confession of her love. She had left the gate of Paradise ajar. She had looked at me in such a way that the very look was an invitation to enter when I should reappear. And I had failed her.
It was in vain that I tried to reassure myself. If I had not kept that sacred tryst, was it not because in failing to do so I was really serving her? When once she knew the circumstances she must forgive me. She had asked me to find the casket for her. She had dreaded the possibility of the duke’s finding it. Could she find fault, then, because I had taken her at her word?
But because she had asked me to find it, I should have gone to her at once to tell her that the forlorn hope had become an actual possibility. Instead of doing that, I had thought of myself first–of my own petty triumph. I had yielded to the cheap excitement of putting my theory to actual test. I had seen her in the duke’s company on the balcony of the hotel only a few hours ago. What if she had turned to him for the sympathy and confidence that I had failed to give her? Could I complain if she had done that? Only a few hours ago I had insisted upon the uselessness of the search. I had begged her to bid me relinquish it. I had told her that she had no right to rest her happiness on the shifting foundations of chance; that if she loved the duke, there was nothing more to be said; but that, if she loved me, she had no right to permit him to misconstrue her idly spoken words. Let her cut the Gordian knot by yielding herself to me.
I had said all this to her, and my actions this afternoon had belied my words. Could I explain away this apparently glaring inconsistency? I should find it difficult to prove to her that I was the loyal lover I had claimed to be. I hardly dared hope that she would listen and forgive.
I was prepared for reproaches, for tears. It was not unlikely, I thought, that she would even refuse to see me. But she came into the reception-room of the hotel almost immediately after my arrival, and she was smiling.
“Jacqueline!” I held her hand clasped in mine. I pleaded for forgiveness with my eyes.
She withdrew her hand gently–not with impatience, or embarrassment either, but quite naturally, with a frank smile that was altogether friendly and affectionate.
“What do you think of me, Jacqueline? That I should have failed you?” I murmured.
“I must suspend judgment until you tell me precisely why you have failed me,” she cried cheerfully.