CHAPTER XV
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!”