Had the earth yawned suddenly open at his feet, Paul Desfrayne could not have expressed more utter amazement than was depicted in his face and in his entire attitude on hearing the declaration made by Leonardo Gilardoni. He stared as if confounded.
“Your wife!” he repeated, at length.
“Certainly. My wife,” answered the valet.
“Then—then——Great heavens, your wife! But it is impossible.”
“Why should it be impossible?” almost angrily demanded the Italian. “Do you mean it is impossible that the famous star of the lyrical stage should be the wife of a poor, penniless fellow like myself? It must seem strange—I don’t deny it. But in her early days she was one of the poorest and most obscure of peasant girls, and thought Leonardo Gilardoni, with his little piece of land, and the savings bequeathed by his father, quite a catch. No thought of English milords and Russian princes then.”
Captain Desfrayne took a hasty turn or two, then again faced his servant.
“You amaze me,” he said. “Then how did it happen, since you loved her, as you say, that you came to be separated from her, and how has it come about that you appear to be utter strangers, you two? How is it that she contemplates—if report speak true—marriage with a Russian prince, if she is already married, the wife of Leonardo Gilardoni?”
But as he spoke, Paul Desfrayne was thinking, with a half-dazed brain, that if Lucia Guiscardini should prove to be the wife of this Italian servant, her marriage with himself must have been perfectly illegal.
If she were the wife of another, why, he must be free. But it could not be. He had yet to hear some explanation which would inevitably shut out from view the bright vision of happy freedom conjured up for a moment by the wild words of Gilardoni.
No; it was beyond hope that this poisonous sting could ever be taken from out his blighted life.