PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES.
Captain Desfrayne selected a paper, and slowly turned over the pages
as he cut them. Some time elapsed before he spoke; for he could not
exactly frame words in which to put the question he meant to ask.
“What part of Italy did you come from?” he inquired carelessly,
following the spiral line of cigar-smoke, as he breathed it from his
lips.
Gilardoni looked at him with that furtive glance Captain Desfrayne had
already noticed; but replied, without seeming to hesitate:
“From Florence, sir.”
“Ah! Have you any relatives living?”
“None, sir. Not one. My father and mother died when I was a young
child, leaving me to the care of a distant relative, who has since
died, and I never had either brothers or sisters.”
The faint suspicion that had arisen in Paul Desfrayne’s mind that
the brilliant prima donna might be this fellow’s sister, was then
negatived. Probably, some humble lover of her early days, whom she had
despised, perhaps jilted? So superbly beautiful a creature, born in
an Italian village, must have had many adorers; and he knew her to be
arrogant and callous of other people’s feelings, and incredibly vain of
her own manifold attractions.
“A countrywoman of yours,” he abruptly said, with an effort at smiling,
as he turned out the large, oval engraving of Madam Guiscardini.
Gilardoni could not refuse to look; but he drew back his lips as some
animals do when in a fury. The action might pass for an affirmative
smile, but it was uglier than any frown.
“Yes,” he curtly replied.
“Did you know her?”
Gilardoni did not respond this time; but gave his attention to a tall
vase, which he seemed to find in need of being relieved of the dust
that had accumulated round the flutings.
Captain Desfrayne waited for a minute, and then repeated the question.
“Why, sir, everybody knows her--everybody all over the world,”
Gilardoni answered, only half-turning round.
He spoke with a strong effort to display indifference; but his manner
and voice both betrayed singular constraint. Paul Desfrayne was
prepared for this, and did not take any notice, but continued:
“She was but a village girl, I suppose, when you knew her? They say she
is going to marry a Russian prince.”
This time Gilardoni made a great effort, and, looking his new master
full in the face, with a vacant, uninterested expression, said:
“Do they, sir?”
There was no doubt that Gilardoni was on his guard, and would not
betray more than he could possibly help.
Paul Desfrayne would not give up yet, for that eager desire to know
what secret reason this man had for hating Madam Guiscardini so
bitterly as he seemed to do was almost unconquerable.
“They say,” he went on slowly, lowering his eyes, and taking a
tiny nail-knife from his waistcoat-pocket, to keep his glances
ostentatiously employed, “that the beautiful songstress is already
married.”
These men were playing at cross-purposes. The master would have given
all he possessed in the world to have learned the secret which was of
no value whatever to the servant. Four monosyllables would have served
to unlock those dreary prison doors, and let in the light of possible
happiness upon that poor, weary soul, who was suffering the penalty of
the one mistake of his young life.
Paul Desfrayne glanced for a swift instant at Gilardoni. The Italian’s
strong, nervous hands were clutched fast upon the top of the chair in
front of him; his face was alternately red and pale, and his eyes were
gleaming like fire.
“Who told you that?” he demanded, in a sepulchral whisper.
“I don’t know,” Captain Desfrayne answered, slightly shrugging his
shoulders. “People tell you all sorts of things about eminent singers
and public characters generally.”
Gilardoni leaned his long, thin body forward, and stared his master in
the face.
“Then where do they say her husband is?” he demanded, in the same
sibilant whisper.
The mystery seemed clearer now. He was an old lover--perhaps once a
favorite--of madam’s. It was hardly worth the trouble of talking to the
fellow; and Paul Desfrayne felt half-enraged with himself for having
done so. But now that he wished the conversation ended, or, rather,
that he had not begun it, Gilardoni seemed determined to continue it.
“Idle gossip all, I doubt not,” Captain Desfrayne said carelessly.
“You, who come from her native village, would be more likely than
anybody else to guess who the lucky individual might happen to be,
and where he might be found; for if she had married any one after she
quitted her village, it would have been somebody of importance.”
“Somebody to talk about--somebody to be proud of,” Gilardoni cried, his
eyes flashing with a strange light. “If she had married a poor man----”
He stopped suddenly; Captain Desfrayne laughed.
“Yes,” he said. “If she had married a poor man, she would have hated
and despised him. Perhaps she did marry a poor man, and is not able to
marry the Russian prince,” he added, knocking the ash carelessly from
his cigar.
“She would have hated and despised him,” Gilardoni repeated slowly,
with intense acrimony in his accent. “Do _you_ know whether she is
married or not?” he abruptly demanded, the keen, furtive, eager,
inquiring look in his eyes again.
“Come, I think we have talked enough about Madam Guiscardini,” answered
Captain Desfrayne, in almost a harsh tone, rising from his couch. “I
don’t see that there can be any particular interest for you or for me
in the subject.”
He felt quite sure now that this was some early lover, who so madly
adored the brilliant operatic star that he could not bear the thought
that she should belong to another, although she never could be his.
He felt disappointed and vexed with himself for permitting his eager
curiosity to carry him so far from his customary reserve and dignity
as to lead him into gossiping with his servant, a fellow whom until
yesterday he scarcely knew existed.
In a softer tone he dismissed his new attendant, telling him some of
the people about the house would show him the room where he was to
sleep. Gilardoni quitted the room with a profound inclination, and
Captain Desfrayne, almost to his relief, was left alone.
“The affair is very simple,” he muttered to himself, as he walked to
the window and threw it open to breathe the delicious air of the fair
June night--“very simple. These Italians are so susceptible, and so
revengeful. Probably _la_ Lucia flirted with him in her early days,
before the dawn of splendor and riches came upon her and led her to
think----Pooh! the story is commonplace to nausea--insipid. I don’t
care to know anything about her more than I already know. What good
would it do me?”
He rested his head against the framework of the window, and gazed
abstractedly into the deserted street. The moon had risen in full
majesty, and was flooding every place with silver light. A party of
young men came along the pavement arm in arm, singing, as the students
in “Faust” came along that memorable night.
Paul Desfrayne listened. The music was familiar to him; the words he
knew well, and could distinguish them.
The first time Paul Desfrayne had heard Lucia Guiscardini sing upon
the stage, she had sung those verses. They haunted him yet. They now
brought back memories steeped in pain and bitterness.
Wearied in body, sick at heart, he closed the window to shut out those
distasteful strains, and went with slow steps to his bedroom.