Yes, he had news—bad news. This was no place for me. It was not wholesome for us here. Let us return to Tollendhal, or Vienna, or even England. Let us start before further mischief overtook us.
I believe I fell upon him at last and shook him. What had he heard. What had he heard of her? I vowed he was driving me mad, vowed that if he did not instantly tell me all I would throw caution to the wind and go to the palace and demand my wife in person, were it of the Duke himself. This threat extorted at length the terrible thing that even the rough old soldier feared to utter.
“The lady,” he stammered, “the lady can no longer be spoken of as your honour’s wife. She is married.”
“Married!” I cried. “What do you mean, you scoundrel? No longer my wife! Married! You are raving—this is stark lunacy.”
He shook his grey head under the shower of my fury.
“Married. Does your honour forget that they think here that they have at last succeeded in killing you?”
I looked at him aghast, unwilling to admit the awful illumination that flashed upon my mind. He, believing me still incredulous, proceeded:
“Married she is. Fräulein Pahlen, the lady-in-waiting,—Fräulein Pahlen, as your honour bade me call her, and as it seems she called herself until ...” and then with a significant emphasis, “until six weeks ago.”