Gilardoni turned his great dark eyes upon his master, as if in surprise, forgetting at the moment that he had not told him of the completing point of his story. Then he said, with a vindictive bitterness terrible to hear, because it revealed the smoldering fire beneath: “She is my wife!” CHAPTER XXI. LEONARDO GILARDONI’S STORY. 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. The lovely, pure face of Lois Turquand, as he had seen it on the terrace in the dim, dreamy light, rose before him, as if to reproach him for a wrong unconsciously wrought against her by his fatal marriage. It was evident Gilardoni knew nothing whatever of _la_ Lucia’s marriage with Paul Desfrayne. The Italian was watching his master’s countenance as if anxious to discover the current of his thoughts. There was a momentary pause. Then Gilardoni said, less excitedly: “Why does she think of bettering her condition by a splendid marriage with a great noble when she is the wife of a poor serving-man like myself? Simply because she has destroyed the evidence of her unlucky first marriage.”