A suspicion had in the meantime flashed to the imagination of Charles Hatfield. Was it possible that Barthelma could have married the profligate Perdita, or Laura? He himself had not learnt from his father how he knew that the syren-demoness was married again, or whom she had thus ensnared;—and the Italian’s sudden excitement could not be accounted for otherwise than by the fact that he had made her his wife.
“My God! this intelligence is overwhelming!” murmured Captain Barthelma. “Oh! my dear friend,” he exclaimed, turning with the abruptness of an almost maddening excitement towards Hatfield, “pity me—pity me; that woman of whom you have spoken is——”
“Is what?” demanded Charles impatiently.
“My wife!” responded Barthelma;—and the moment the words were uttered his excitement gave way to a blank despair.
“Malediction upon my communicativeness—my insane garrulity!” ejaculated Charles. “I shall never—never forgive myself for having made these most uncalled-for revelations!”
“Do not blame yourself, my dear friend,” returned the young Italian, in a tone of the deepest melancholy: “you knew not how painfully your words would affect me—you could not anticipate that the warning which you generously intended to convey would come far too late!”
“And, after all, there may be some error—some mistake,” cried Charles, catching at a straw on behalf of his afflicted companion: “the woman whom I mean may not be the same as the lady whom you have espoused——”
“Yes—yes: ’tis the same!” ejaculated the Italian, impatiently: “Laura Mortimer—the beauteous creature whom we saw in the Champs Elysées, and whose mother met with a horrible death some months ago.”
“Ah! that old woman is no more!” exclaimed Charles. “But of what nature was the death of which you speak so shudderingly?”
“The frightful incident occurred when you were in Italy,” answered Barthelma. “Some villain broke a bottle of aqua-fortis or vitriol over her head—and she died in fearful agonies. But I must leave you now, my dear friend,” said the Castelcicalan, with wild abruptness of manner; and hastily wringing both of Hatfield’s hands, he darted away and was out of sight in a few moments.