Now I remembered with joy that strange smile of Jacqueline’s, a smile as vague and inscrutable as the immortal1 smile on the lips of the divine Gioconda, that withholds2 so much. My dear Jacqueline had promised that she would not pledge herself to the duke for a week. That assurance was infinitely3 heartening. But I had made my promise before the duke, and so it was but a foolish boast after all. If he had been villain4 enough to attempt to impose upon her in this way, he was quite capable of setting spies at my heels who would dog my every movement for the next eventful few days. That would make my promise more difficult of achievement. However, the words were spoken. There was nothing for it now but to bend every effort to find the casket. I must make good my word at all costs.
If the casket were actually in existence, and in Venice, I would do that, be the difficulties what they might. The foppish5 mantle6 of the 233dilettante had slipped off my willing shoulders. I was aroused at last. We should see now who was the better man–this Latin with feline7, sheathed8 claws, or the Anglo-Saxon with bulldog grip.
When I knew that sleep was quite impossible, I put on my dressing-gown and went into the sitting-room9 to read. But it was impossible for me to keep my attention on the book. I threw open the heavy shutters10 and looked out.
The lights of Venice the mysterious glowed dimly in the distance. The newly risen moon shone on campanile, dome11 and spire12. Here and there a gondola13, a black speck14 in a lake of silver, drifted slowly by. I heard the plash of the oars15, the fragment of a song. Then my attention was drawn16 to the fondamenta immediately beneath my window by the sharp, persistent17 bark of a dog.
A white poodle was leaping in an ecstasy18 of joy at its master, who was doing his utmost to quiet the beast. He cursed the dog volubly by the evil spirits of his father and grandfather and all his numerous relations and ancestors. At first this little scene only amused me, but my idle amusement gave way to an eager interest when presently I heard my name mentioned. Leaning far out, I saw that Pietro, my gondolier, 234was conversing19 with the dog’s master. I tried in vain to hear what they were talking about, but almost immediately the dog and his master slunk down the quay20, hugging the shadow of the wall. I had not seen the fellow’s face, but something in his gait seemed familiar. I whistled to attract Pietro’s attention, and beckoned21 to him. Before he had entered my room I had made up my mind that I knew who this prowler was. I was convinced that it was none other than the duke’s servant, whom St. Hilary and I had seen that night the duke had paid his memorable22 visit to my rooms.
“Pietro,” I said, looking at him steadily23, “I have had you in my service ever since you left the penitentiary24 a few rods down the quay. It was an affair of stabbing, I believe.”
Pietro nodded with unblushing countenance25.
“Yes, monsignore, it was an affair of stabbing. But that I was innocent as a three-years-old babe, I swear to you by all the holy saints in the calendar, including the Blessed Virgin26 herself.”
“Pietro,” I continued, “I have been a fairly good master. You have earned many a buona lira.” I paused suggestively.
He was voluble in his gratitude27. Heaven was witness that he had been faithful and honest.
235“Then will you tell me who was talking to you a few minutes ago? Will you tell me exactly what he said to you?”
Certainly he would, and with an ease born of years of careful cultivation28 he lied as cheerfully and fluently as St. Hilary himself.
“The man, monsignore, is the cousin of the husband of my sister. He is the concierge29 of the Pallazzina Baroni on the Rio Santa Barbara. Perhaps you have seen, monsignore, the wonderful poodle that is the property of the Principessa Fini, who lives in that palace. I assure you, monsignore, that the Principessa adores the poodle with the woolly coat that hangs in strings30 at the tail with a devotion that is as great as if the wonderful poodle were her own son. But this poodle, you must understand, is of an intelligence that is marvelous and a badness that is lamentable32. He is always running away from his dear mistress. To-night he went for a ride on the steamboat–oh, he is of an intelligence that is truly remarkable33, and came to our fondamenta to visit another dog, but a dog of so plebeian34 a birth as to be disgraceful. And so the concierge has come swearing after the wicked beast, and no doubt the monsignore heard the barking.”
It was useless to get anything out of Pietro. 236He lied because he loved to lie, and then there had been the money that had crossed his palm.
“That will do,” I said gravely.
I did not inform St. Hilary the next morning of my foolish boast to the duke. Nor did I tell him that the duke had already been bribing35 my servant to spy on me. Hearing that, he would, I was sure, insist upon our postponing36 the search for the casket until the week was over. That would not suit my plans at all. But I did tell him of the duke’s pseudo casket. He was delighted at this turn of affairs.
“So our friend the comedian37 has discovered a casket all by himself,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with joy. “His object, of course, is to gain the consent of Miss Quintard to marry him. Now that he has obtained that, he will cease to bother us, if, indeed, he has concerned himself about us at all. But I forgot,” he added hypocritically, seizing my hands. “You, my dear Hume, do not consider this good news at all.”
“If it were true that Miss Quintard were actually engaged to the duke,” I replied indifferently, “I should tell you and the casket to go to the devil. But I happen to know that she will wait a week, at least, before binding38 herself to him or any other.”
237“Capital, my dear Hume, capital! In a quarter of an hour I shall be dressed. A cup of coffee and a cigarette, and we will continue our search. It is early, but not too early to interview a servant mopping a doorstep.”
The Palace C?sarini, as every tourist knows, is one of the most beautiful and historic in Venice. Its distinguishing mark, however, is the square tower that stands at its rear. The campanile, as bare of ornament39 and as stolid40 as one of those towers of defence one sees at Regensburg, is no more than a case for the stairway inside. Ugly as it is, it serves to bring into more striking contrast the lightness and delicacy41 of the Gothic jewel-work of the fa?ade of the palace. Five arches, richly carved with foliage42, support the upper stories. The loggia beneath is exquisitely43 proportioned. The broad marble steps, leading to the water’s edge, extend the whole width of the palace front. The pointed44 windows, Moorish45 in the profusion46 of their carving47, are noticeable because of the quaintly48 grotesque49 beasts, with monstrous50 tails and protruding51 tongues, that are carved in niches52 between each window.
Our interest in the palace, however, was centered in the tower. From this tower we expected to be led to the eighth landmark53. We thought 238it most unlikely that the iron safes had any significance. For no imaginable reason, surely, could the clock-maker have chosen so public a hiding-place. Indeed, the casket might not be in the C?sarini Palace at all; yet we expected to find it there. At first thought this seemed unreasonable54. Why should he have hidden the gems55 in another house? The existence of the iron safes suggests the answer.
St. Hilary had read in the Annals of the Inquisition that the last work Giovanni had undertaken was the building of these safes. When once he had determined56 to steal the casket he must have thought of a hiding-place. He knew that his own house was impossible. The mechanism57 of these safes was intricate and delicate. They would require constant attention and repair. The clock-maker would have, therefore, frequent access to the palace, and provided that he was successful in once hiding the casket there, he could take away the stones at his leisure. Here, then, if this theory was correct, the son had hidden the casket. For as his father’s assistant he would naturally have had access to the palace.
St. Hilary and I rang the bell at the side door of the palace on the Calle Bianca Madonna. It 239was a less conspicuous58 entrance than that on the Grand Canal. The majordomo, summoned by us, peremptorily59 frowned on our modest request to be permitted to see the curious tower and the safes.
“No, signori,” he protested, swelling60 out a chest resplendent with gold braid, “this is no time for tourists to visit the palace.”
“Tourists!” cried St. Hilary indignantly. “Have I not told you we are distinguished61 architects?”
“Because,” continued the majordomo patiently, closing his eyes, as if he had not heard the interruption, “all the palace is in confusion. To-morrow night the Princess C?sarini gives the famous bal masqué. You can understand, then, that this is no time to visit our palace.”
“But we could at least see the safes. They interest us particularly.”
“The safes, signore! Pooh, pooh, they have been made into furnaces long ago.”
“But the tower–we can visit that without troubling you. We are writing a book on curious towers.”
The man shrugged62 his shoulders obstinately63. “After to-morrow night, perhaps. I do not know. Certainly not till then. And even then 240our princess may not care to have the gentlemen come. She goes to Paris the day after, and the palace will be closed.”
This was alarming news.
“Closed!” persisted St. Hilary, and it was impossible to mistake the note of satisfaction in his voice. “Closed! And does no one stay to take care of it?”
“But certainly,” replied the servant suspiciously, “I stay and all the servants; and then, let me tell the gentlemen, unless the princess commands, no one, not even the king, has admittance.”
I thought St. Hilary’s eagerness most indiscreet, but he was in no way abashed64.
“It is to be a very exclusive ball, I suppose.”
“Of an exclusiveness that will exclude all Inglesi and forrestieri,” cried the servant maliciously65, and shut the door in our faces.
“Do you think your suspicions and vulgar curiosity quite apropos66, St. Hilary?” I demanded vexatiously, as we turned from the door.
“Oh, thick of head and slow of understanding,” he retorted in wild good humor. “Do you think that I asked my questions without reason? I wanted to know if it were not better for us to postpone67 our explorations till after this precious ball. I have learned definitely that it would be 241quite useless. If Madame La Princesse goes to Paris immediately after, it is not likely that she will bother her head giving tourists or architects permission to explore her palace. As to forcing our way in afterward68, you heard what the man said. For my part I prefer to enter the palace as a guest. We must resort to the jimmy and the dark-lantern as a last extremity69. Certainly we must go to that ball.”
“Without an invitation, and costumes?”
“Assuredly not. And the costumes I have in my mind’s eye for you and myself will fit our figures to a marvel31. You, the stolid pig, shall be resplendent as the Doge. As for me, I shall be bravely clad in doublet and hose as the captain of the guard. And behold70, in that room yonder probably repose71 our costumes this very moment.”
St. Hilary had tossed his head to a window of a pretentious72 apartment on the second story.
“We are going to hire costumes from a shop?”
“What!” he cried in horror. “You have lived in Venice three years, and mistake the apartments of one of the most aristocratic families of Venice for a costumer’s shop. Fie, fie!”
“You are not going to steal the costumes and the tickets?” I cried in dismay. St. Hilary’s 242methods were always so beautifully direct and unscrupulous.
“I am not going to steal them. I am going, as it were, to squeeze the costumes off the noble backs of two gallant73 cavaliers I know slightly, and the tickets out of their pockets. Oh, they will gladly oblige me, those young gentlemen.”
“But why?”
“Why, my friend? Because it so happens that I hold a little note that is signed jointly74 in the writing of the noble youths. Now if I were to postpone the necessity of their paying those notes for a month or two, or if I removed the necessity of payment altogether, would they not be duly grateful?”
As I have said, St. Hilary’s methods were always so beautifully direct and unscrupulous.
点击收听单词发音
1 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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2 withholds | |
v.扣留( withhold的第三人称单数 );拒绝给予;抑制(某事物);制止 | |
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3 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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4 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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5 foppish | |
adj.矫饰的,浮华的 | |
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6 mantle | |
n.斗篷,覆罩之物,罩子;v.罩住,覆盖,脸红 | |
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7 feline | |
adj.猫科的 | |
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8 sheathed | |
adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的;覆盖的;铠装的;装鞘了的v.将(刀、剑等)插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 );包,覆盖 | |
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9 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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10 shutters | |
百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 ); (照相机的)快门 | |
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11 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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12 spire | |
n.(教堂)尖顶,尖塔,高点 | |
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13 gondola | |
n.威尼斯的平底轻舟;飞船的吊船 | |
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14 speck | |
n.微粒,小污点,小斑点 | |
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15 oars | |
n.桨,橹( oar的名词复数 );划手v.划(行)( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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16 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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17 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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18 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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19 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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20 quay | |
n.码头,靠岸处 | |
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21 beckoned | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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23 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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24 penitentiary | |
n.感化院;监狱 | |
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25 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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26 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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27 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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28 cultivation | |
n.耕作,培养,栽培(法),养成 | |
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29 concierge | |
n.管理员;门房 | |
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30 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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31 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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32 lamentable | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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33 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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34 plebeian | |
adj.粗俗的;平民的;n.平民;庶民 | |
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35 bribing | |
贿赂 | |
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36 postponing | |
v.延期,推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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37 comedian | |
n.喜剧演员;滑稽演员 | |
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38 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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39 ornament | |
v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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40 stolid | |
adj.无动于衷的,感情麻木的 | |
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41 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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42 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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43 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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44 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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45 moorish | |
adj.沼地的,荒野的,生[住]在沼地的 | |
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46 profusion | |
n.挥霍;丰富 | |
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47 carving | |
n.雕刻品,雕花 | |
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48 quaintly | |
adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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49 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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50 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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51 protruding | |
v.(使某物)伸出,(使某物)突出( protrude的现在分词 );凸 | |
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52 niches | |
壁龛( niche的名词复数 ); 合适的位置[工作等]; (产品的)商机; 生态位(一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位) | |
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53 landmark | |
n.陆标,划时代的事,地界标 | |
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54 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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55 gems | |
growth; economy; management; and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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56 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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57 mechanism | |
n.机械装置;机构,结构 | |
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58 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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59 peremptorily | |
adv.紧急地,不容分说地,专横地 | |
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60 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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61 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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62 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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63 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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64 abashed | |
adj.窘迫的,尴尬的v.使羞愧,使局促,使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65 maliciously | |
adv.有敌意地 | |
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66 apropos | |
adv.恰好地;adj.恰当的;关于 | |
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67 postpone | |
v.延期,推迟 | |
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68 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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69 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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70 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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71 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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72 pretentious | |
adj.自命不凡的,自负的,炫耀的 | |
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73 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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74 jointly | |
ad.联合地,共同地 | |
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