Three Weeks Part 15

"To Venice!" said Paul in delight. "To Venice!"

"Yes--I cannot endure any more of Lucerne, parted from you, with only the prospect of s.n.a.t.c.hed meetings. It is not to be borne. We shall go to that home of strange joy, my lover, and there for a s.p.a.ce at least we can live in peace."

Paul asked no better gift of fate. Venice he had always longed to see, and now to see it with her! Ah! the very thought was ecstasy to him, and made the blood bound in his veins.

"When, when, my darling?" he asked. "Tomorrow? When?"

"To-day is Friday," she said. "One must give Dmitry time to make the arrangements and take a palace for us. Shall we say Sunday, Paul? I shall go on Sunday, and you can follow the next day--so by Tuesday evening we shall be together again, not to part until--the end."

"The end?" said Paul, with sinking heart.

"Sweetheart," she whispered, while she drew his face down to hers, "think nothing evil. I said the end--but fate alone knows when that must be. Do not let us force her hand by speculating about it. Remember always to live while we may."

And Paul was more or less comforted, but in moments of silence all through the day he seemed to hear the echo of the words--The End.

CHAPTER XV

It was a beautiful apartment that Dmitry had found for them on the Grand Ca.n.a.l in Venice, in an old palace looking southwest. A convenient door in a side ca.n.a.l cloaked the exit and entry of its inhabitants from curious eyes--had there been any to indulge in curiosity; but in Venice there is a good deal of the feeling of live and let live, and the _dolce far niente_ of the life is not conducive to an over-anxious interest in the doings of one's neighbours.

Money and intelligence can achieve a number of things in a short s.p.a.ce of time, and Dmitry had had both at his command, so everything, including a _chef_ from Paris and a retinue of Italian servants, was ready when on the Tuesday evening Paul arrived at the station.

What a wonderland it seemed to him, Venice! A wonderland where was awaiting him his heart's delight--more pa.s.sionately desired than ever after three days of total abstinence.

As after the Friday afternoon he had spent more or less in hiding in the terrace-room, his lady had judged it wiser for him not to come at all to Lucerne, and on the Sat.u.r.day had met him at a quiet part of the sh.o.r.e of the lake, beyond the landing-steps of the _funiculaire,_ and for a few short hours they had cruised about on the blue waters--but her sweetest tenderness and ready wit had not been able entirely to eliminate the feeling of unrest which troubled them. And then there were the nights, the miserable evenings and nights of separation. On the Sunday she had departed to Venice, and after she had gone, Paul had returned for one day to Lucerne, leaving again on the Monday, apparently as unacquainted with Madame Zalenska as he had been the first night of his arrival.

He had not seen her since Sat.u.r.day. Three whole days of anguis.h.i.+ng longing. And now in half an hour at least she would be in his arms. The journey through the beautiful scenery from Lucerne had been got through at night--all day from Milan a feverish excitement had dominated him, and prevented his taking any interest in outward surroundings. A magnetic attraction seemed drawing him on--on--to the centre of light and joy--his lady's presence.

Dmitry and an Italian servant awaited his arrival; not an instant's delay for luggage called a halt. Tompson and the Italian were left for that, and Paul departed with his trusty guide.

It was about seven o'clock, the opalescent lights were beginning to show in the sky, and their reflection in the water, as he stooped his tall head to enter the covered gondola. It was all too beautiful and wonderful to take in at once, and then he only wanted wings the sooner to arrive, not eyes to see the pa.s.sing objects. Afterwards the strange soft cry of the gondoliers and the sights appealed to him; but on this first evening every throb of his being was centred upon the one moment when he should hold his beloved one to his heart.

He could hardly contain his impatience, and walk sedately beside Dmitry when they ascended the great stone staircase--he felt like bounding up three steps at a time. Dmitry had been respectfully silent. Madame was well--that was all he would say. He opened the great double door with a latch-key, and Paul found himself in vast hall almost unfurnished but for some tapestry on the walls, and a huge gilt marriage-chest, and a couple of chairs. It was ill lit, and there was something of decay and gloom in its aspect.

On they went, through other doors to a salon, vast and gloomy too, and then the glory and joy of heaven seemed to spring upon Paul's view when the shrine of the G.o.ddess was reached--a smaller room, whose windows faced the Grand Ca.n.a.l, now illuminated by the setting sun in all its splendour, coming in shafts from the balcony blinds. And among the quaintest and most old-world surroundings, mixed with her own wonderful personal notes of luxury, his lady rose from the tiger couch to meet him.

His lady! His Queen!

And, indeed, she seemed a queen when at last he held her at arms'-length to look at her. She was garbed all ready for dinner in a marvellous garment of s.h.i.+mmering purple, while round her shoulders a scarf of brilliant pale emerald gauze, all fringed with gold, fell in two long ends, and on her neck and in her ears great emeralds gleamed--a pear-shaped one of unusual brilliancy fell at the parting of her waves of hair on to her white smooth forehead. But the colour of her eyes he could not be sure of--only they were two wells of love and pa.s.sion gazing into his own.

All the simplicity of the Burgenstock surroundings was gone. The flowers were in the greatest profusion, rare and heavy-scented; the pillows of the couch were more splendid than ever; cloths of gold and silver and wonderful shades of orange and green velvet were among the purple ones he already knew. Priceless pieces of brocade interwoven with gold covered the screens and other couches; and, near enough to pick up when she wanted them, stood jewelled boxes of cigarettes and bonbons, and stands of perfume.

Her expression, too, was altered. A new mood shone there; and later, when Paul learnt the history of the wonderful women of _cinquecento_ Venice, it seemed as if something of their exotic voluptuous spirit now lived in her.

This was a new queen to wors.h.i.+p--and die for, if necessary. He dimly felt, even in these first moments, that here he would drink still deeper of the mysteries of life and pa.s.sionate love.

_"Beztzenny-moi,"_ she said, "my priceless one. At last I have you again to make me _live_. Ah! I must know it is really you, my Paul!"

They were sitting on the tiger by now, and she undulated round and all over him, feeling his coat, and his face, and his hair, as a blind person might, till at last it seemed as if she were twined about him like a serpent. And every now and then a narrow shaft of the glorious dying sunlight would strike the great emerald on her forehead, and give forth sparks of vivid green which appeared reflected again in her eyes. Paul's head swam, he felt intoxicated with bliss.

"This Venice is for you and me, my Paul," she said. "The air is full of love and dreams; we have left the slender moon behind us in Switzerland; here she is nearing her full, and the summer is upon us with all her richness and completeness--the spring of our love has pa.s.sed."

Her voice fell into its rhythmical cadence, as if she were whispering a prophecy inspired by some presence beyond.

"We will drink deep of the cup of delight, my lover, and bathe in the wine of the G.o.ds. We shall feast on the tongues of nightingales, and rest on couches of flowers. And thou shalt cede me thy soul, beloved, and I will give thee mine--"

But the rest was lost in the meeting of their lips.

They dined on the open loggia, its curtains drawn, hiding them from the view of the palaces opposite, but not preventing the soft sounds of the singers in the gondolas moored to the poles beneath from reaching their ears. And above the music now and then would come the faint splash of water, and the "Stahi"--"Preme" of some moving gondolier.

The food was of the richest, beginning with strange fishes and quant.i.ties of _hors d'oeuvres_ that Paul knew not, accompanied by _vodka_ in several forms. And some of the _plats_ she would just taste, and some send instantly away.

And all the while a little fountain of her own perfume played from a group of sportive cupids in silver, while the table in the centre was piled with red roses. Dmitry and two Italian footmen waited, and everything was done with the greatest state. A regal magnificence was in the lady's air and mien. She spoke of the splendours of Venice's past, and let Paul feel the atmosphere of that subtle time of pa.s.sion and life. Of here a love-scene, and there a murder. Of wisdom and vice, and intoxicating emotion, all blended in a kaleidoscope of gorgeousness and colour.

And once again her vast knowledge came as a fresh wonder to Paul--no smallest detail of history seemed wanting in her talk, so that he lived again in that old world and felt himself a Doge.

When they were alone at last, tasting the golden wine, she rose and drew him to the loggia bal.u.s.trade. Dmitry had drawn back the curtains and extinguished the lights, and only the brilliant moon lit the scene; a splendid moon, two nights from the full. There she shone straight down upon them to welcome them to this City of Romance.

What loveliness met Paul's view! A loveliness in which art and nature blended in one satisfying whole.

"Darling," he said, "this is better than the Burgenstock. Let us go out on the water and float about, too."

It was exceedingly warm these last days of May, and that night not a zephyr stirred a ripple. A cloak and scarf of black gauze soon hid the lady's splendour, and they descended the staircase hand in hand to the waiting open gondola.

It was a new experience of joy for Paul to recline there, and drift away down the stream, amidst the music and the coloured lanterns, and the wonderful, wonderful spell of the place.

The lady was silent for a while, and then she began to whisper pa.s.sionate words of love. She had never before been thus carried away--and he must say them to her--as he held her hand--burning words, inflaming the imagination and exciting the sense. It seemed as if all the other nights of love were concentrated into this one in its perfect joy.

Who can tell of the wild exaltation which filled Paul? He was no longer just Paul Verdayne, the ordinary young Englishman; he was a G.o.d--and this was Olympus.

"Look, Paul!" she said at last. "Can you not see Desdemona peeping from the balcony of her house there? And to think she will have no happiness before her Moor will strangle her to-night! Death without joys. Ah! that is cruel. Some joys are well worth death, are they not, my lover, as you and I should know?"

"Worth death and eternity," said Paul. "For one such night as this with you a man would sell his soul."

It was not until they turned at the opening of the Guidecca to return to their palazzo that they both became aware of another gondola following them, always at the same distance behind--a gondola with two solitary figures in it huddled on the seats.

The lady gave a whispered order in Italian to her gondolier, who came to a sudden stop, thus forcing the other boat to come much nearer before it, too, arrested its course. There a moonbeam caught the faces of the men as they leant forward to see what had occurred. One of them was Dmitry, and the other a younger man of the pure Kalmuck type whom Paul had never seen.

"Vasili!" exclaimed the lady, in pa.s.sionate surprise. "Vasili! and they have not told me!"

She trembled all over, while her eyes blazed green flames of anger and excitement. "If it is unnecessary they shall feel the whip for this."

Her cloak had fallen aside a little, disclosing a s.h.i.+mmer of purple garment and flas.h.i.+ng emeralds. She looked barbaric, her raven brows knit.

It might have been Cleopatra commanding the instant death of an offending slave.