CHAPTER XI
When Browne reached the Rue Jacquarie, after his receipt of the letterwhich had caused him so much pain and consternation, it was to learnthat Katherine was not at home, and to find Madame Bernstein in hersitting-room, sniffing vigorously at a bottle of smelling-salts, and onthe verge of hysterics. Seeing Browne, she sprang to her feet with acry that was half one of relief, and half of fear.
"Oh, Monsieur Browne," said she, "Heaven be praised that you have come!I have had such terrible trouble this morning, and have passed throughsuch a scene with Katherine that my nerves are quite unstrung."
"Where is Katherine?" Browne inquired almost angrily, and quiteignoring the description of her woes; "and what is the meaning of theletter she wrote me this morning?"
"You must not be angry with her," said Madame, approaching and layingher hand gently upon his arm, while she looked up into his face, withwhat was intended to be a piteous expression. "The poor child is onlydoing what she deems to be right. You would not have her actotherwise, I know."
"You understand my feelings, I think," Browne replied bluntly. "At thesame time, I know how over-conscientious she is apt to be in suchmatters. Cannot I see her? Where is she?"
"She has gone out," said Madame, with a sigh. "She and I, I am sorryto say, had a little disagreement this morning over her treatment ofyou. I know it was very wrong of me, and that you will hate me for it;but I could not help it. I could not let her spoil her own life andyours without uttering a protest. As a result, she did what she alwaysdoes--that is to say, she put on her hat and cape, and went for a walk."
"But have you no notion where I could find her?" asked Browne, who wasbeginning to feel that everything and everybody were conspiring againsthim. "Has she any usual haunts, where I should run a moderate chanceof coming across her?"
"On that point I am afraid I can say nothing," answered Madame. "Sheseldom takes me into her confidence. Yet, stay; I _do_ remember havingheard her once say that, when she was put out by anything, the onlything that could soothe her, and set her right again, was a visit tothe picture galleries at the Louvre."
"You are sure you know of no other place?"
"None whatever," replied the lady. "The pictures at the Louvre are theonly things in Paris in which she seems to take any interest. She isinsane on the subject."
"In that case I'll try the Louvre at once," said Browne, picking up hishat.
"But let me first explain to you the reason of all that has happened,"said Madame, stretching out her hand as if to detain him.
"Thank you," Browne returned, with greater coldness than he had everyet spoken to her; "but, if you do not mind, I would rather hear thatfrom her own lips."
With that he bade Madame good-bye, and made his way down to the streetonce more. From the Rue Jacquarie to the Louvre is not more than a tenminutes' drive at most--that is to say, if you proceed by the Avenue del'Opera,--and yet to Browne it seemed as if he were hours in the cab.On entering the museum he made his way direct to the picture galleries.The building had not been long open, and for this reason only a fewpeople were to be seen in the corridors, a circumstance for whichBrowne was devoutly thankful. It was not until he reached Room IV.that he knew he was not to have his journey in vain. Standing beforeTitian's "Entombment of Christ," her hands clasped before her, wasKatherine. Her whole being seemed absorbed in enjoyment of thepicture, and it was not until he was close to her that she turned andsaw him. When she did, he noticed that her face was very white andhaggard, and that she looked as if she had not slept for many nights.
"Oh, why have you followed me?" she asked piteously.
"I have come to acknowledge in person the letter you sent me thismorning," he answered. "Surely, Katherine, you did not think I shoulddo as you asked me, and go away without even bidding you good-bye?"
"I hoped you would," she answered, and her lips trembled as she utteredthe words.
"Then you do not know me," he replied, "nor do you know yourself. No,darling; you are my affianced wife, and I refuse to go. What is more,I will not give you up, come what may. Surely you do not think thatmine is such a fair-weather love that it must be destroyed by the firstadverse wind? Try it and see."
"But I cannot and must not," she answered; and then she added, withsuch a weight of sorrow in her voice, that it was as much as he coulddo to prevent himself from taking her in his arms and comforting her,"Oh, you can have no idea how unhappy I am!"
"The more reason that I should be with you to comfort you, darling," hedeclared. "What am I here for, if not to help you? You do not seem tohave realised my proper position in the world. If you are not verycareful, I shall pick you up and carry you off to the nearest parson,and marry you, willy-nilly; and after that you'll be obliged to put themanagement of your affairs in my hands, whether you want to or not."
She looked at him a little reproachfully.
"Please don't joke about it," she said. "I assure you it is by nomeans a laughing matter to me."
"Nor is it to me," answered Browne. "I should have liked you to haveseen my face when I read your letter. I firmly believe I was the mostmiserable man in Europe."
She offered no reply to this speech, and perhaps that was why a littleold gentleman, the same old man in the threadbare black cloak andold-fashioned hat who haunts the galleries, and who entered at thatmoment, imagined that they were quarrelling.
"Come," said the young man at last, "let us find a place where we cansit down and talk unobserved. Then we'll thrash the matter outproperly."
"But it will be no use," replied Katherine. "Believe me, I havethought it out most carefully, and have quite made up my mind what Imust do. Please do not ask me to break the resolutions I have made."
"I will not ask you to do anything but love me, dear," returned Browne."The unfortunate part of it is, you see, I also have made resolutionsthat you, on your side, must not ask me to break. In that case itseems that we have come to a deadlock, and the only way out of it isfor us to start afresh, to discuss the matter thoroughly, and so arriveat an understanding. Come along; I know an excellent corner, where wecan talk without fear of being disturbed. Let us find it."
Seeing that to protest would be useless, and deriving a feeling ofsafety from his masterfulness, she allowed him to lead her along thegalleries until they reached the corner to which he had referred. Noone was in sight, not even the little old man in the cloak, who wasprobably gloating, according to custom, over the "Venus del Pardo" inRoom VI.
"Now let us sit down," said Browne, pointing to the seat, "and you musttell me everything. Remember, I have a right to know; and reflect alsothat, if there is any person in this wide world who can help you, it isI, your husband in the sight of God, if not by the law of man."
He took her hand, and found that it was trembling. He pressed itwithin his own as if to give her courage.
"Tell me everything, darling," he said--"everything from the verybeginning to the end. Then I shall know how to help you. I can seethat you have been worrying yourself about it more than is good foryour health. Let me share the responsibility with you."
She had to admit to herself that, after all, it was good to have a manto lean upon, to feel that such a pillar of strength was behind her.For this reason she unconsciously drew a little closer to him, asthough she would seek shelter in his arms and defy the world from thatplace of security.
"Now let me have your story," said Browne. "Hide nothing from me; foronly when I know all, shall I be in a position to say how I am to helpyou."
He felt a shudder sweep over her as he said this, and a considerableinterval elapsed before she replied. When she did her voice was harshand strained, as if she were nerving herself to make an admission,which she would rather not have allowed to pass her lips.
"You cannot imagine," she said, "how it pains me to have to tell you mypitiful tale. And yet I feel that I should be doing you a far greaterwrong if I were to keep silence. It is not for myself that
I feelthis, but for you. Whatever may be my fate, whatever may come later, Iwant you always to remember that."
"I will remember," her lover replied softly. "But you must not thinkof me at all, dear. I am content to serve you. Now tell meeverything."
Once more she was silent for a few moments, as though she werecollecting her thoughts; then she commenced her tale.