CHAPTER VIII
Now the Amphitryon Club is situated in the Avenue de l'Opera, as allthe world knows, and is one of the most exclusive and distinguishedclubs in Europe. Browne had been a member for many years, and duringhis stays in Paris was usually to be found there.
It was a fine building, in which everything was done in the mostsumptuous and luxurious fashion. You might lunch there on bread andcheese or a Porter-house steak; but the bread, the cheese, and thesteak, while unpretentious in themselves, would be the very bestobtainable of their kind. What led him there on that particularevening Browne did not quite know. It was Destiny! Blind Fate had himin hand, and was luring him on to what was to be the most momentoushalf-hour of his life. He knew he was pretty certain of finding someone there with whom he was acquainted; but he was certainly notprepared for the surprise, which greeted him, when he pushed open theswing-doors and passed into the smoking-room. Seated in a chair by thefire, and looking into it in the meditative fashion of a man, who hasdined well and feels disinclined for much exertion, was no less aperson than Maas.
"Mon cher ami," he cried, springing to his feet and holding out hishand, "this is a delightful surprise. I had no notion you were inParis."
"I only arrived this evening," Browne replied. "But I might return thecompliment, for I thought you were in St. Petersburg."
"No such thing," said Maas, shaking his head. "Petersburg at this timeof the year does not agree with my constitution. To be able toappreciate it one must have Slav blood in one's veins, which I amdiscourteous enough to be glad to say I have not. But what brings youto the gay city? Is it on business or pleasure? But there, I need notask. I should have remembered that business does not enter into yourlife."
"A false conclusion on your part," said Browne as he lit a cigar. "Fora man who has nothing to do, I have less leisure than many people whodeclare they are overworked."
"By the way," Maas continued, "they tell me we have to congratulate youat last."
"Upon what?" Browne inquired. "What have I done now that the worldshould desire to wish me well?"
"I refer to your approaching marriage," said Maas. "Deauville was inhere the other day, _en route_ to Cannes, and he told us that it wasstated in a London paper that you were about to be married. I told himI felt sure he must be mistaken. If you had been I should probablyhave known it."
"It's not true," said Browne angrily. "Deauville should know betterthan to attach any credence to such a story."
"Exactly what I told him," said Maas, with his usual imperturbability."I said that, at his age, he should know better than to believe everysilly rumour he sees in the press. I assured him that you were worth agood many married men yet."
As he said this Maas watched Browne's face carefully. What he sawthere must have satisfied him on certain points upon which he wasanxious for information, for he smiled a trifle sardonically, andimmediately changed the conversation by inquiring what Browne intendeddoing that night.
"Going home to bed," said Browne promptly. "I have had a long day'stravelling, and I've a lot to do to-morrow. I think, if you'll excuseme, old chap, I'll wish you good-night now."
"Good-night," said Maas, taking his hand. "When shall I see you again?By the way, I hope, if it's any convenience to you, you'll let me putmy rooms at your disposal. But there, I forgot you have your ownmagnificent palace to go to. To offer you hospitality would besuperfluous."
"You talk of my house as if I should be likely to go there," saidBrowne scornfully. "You know as well as I do that I never enter thedoors. What should I do in a caravanserai like that? No; I am stayingat the usual place in the Place Vendome. Now, good-night once more."
"Good-night," said Maas, and Browne accordingly left the room. Whenthe swingdoors had closed behind him Maas went back to his chair andlit another cigarette.
"Our friend Browne is bent upon making a fool of himself," he said tohis cigarette; "and, what is worse, he will put me to a lot of troubleand inconvenience. At this stage of the proceedings, however, it wouldbe worse than useless to endeavour to check him. He has got the bitbetween his teeth, and would bolt right out if I were to try to bringhim to a standstill. The only thing that can be done, as far as I cansee, is to sit still and watch the comedy, and step in like the god outof the machine, when all is ready."
Having thus expressed himself, he lit another cigarette, and went offin search of the supper Browne had declined.
Browne's first night in Paris was destined to prove a restless one.Whether it was the journey or his visit to the Rue Jacquarie that wasresponsible for it, I cannot say; one thing, however, is quite certain:do what he would, he could not sleep. He tried all the proverbialrecipes in vain. He walked about his room, drank a glass of coldwater, tried to picture sheep jumping over a hedge; but in vain. Dowhat he would, the drowsy god would not listen to his appeal. Indeed,the first beams of the morning sun were stealing into his room beforehis eyelids closed. When his man came in to dress him he felt asdrowsy as if he had not closed his eyes all night. He was not going tolie in bed, however. During breakfast he debated with himself what heshould do with regard to the Rue Jacquarie. Should he loiter about thestreets in the hope of intercepting Katherine when she went abroad? Orshould he take the bull by the horns and march boldly up to the houseand ask for an interview? Anxious as he was to see her, he had nodesire to thrust his presence upon her if it was not wanted. He knewthat she would be the first to resent that, and yet he felt he _must_see her, happen what might. As soon as breakfast was finished he puton his hat and set out for a stroll. The clouds of the previous nighthad departed, the sky was blue, and the breeze fresh and invigorating.Many a bright eye and captivating glance was thrown at the healthy,stalwart young Englishman, who carried himself as if fatigue were athing unknown to him. Then, suddenly, he found himself face to facewith Katherine Petrovitch!
He lifted his hat mechanically, but for a moment he stood rooted to thespot with surprise, not knowing what to say or do. Great as was hisastonishment, however, hers was infinitely greater. She stood beforehim, her colour coming and going, and with a frightened look in hereyes.
"Mr. Browne, what does this mean?" she asked, with a little catch ofthe breath. "You are the last person I expected to see in Paris."
"I was called over here on important business," he replied, withunblushing mendacity; and as he said it he watched her face, and foundit more troubled than he had ever yet seen it. "But why, even if weare surprised to see each other, should we remain standing here?" hecontinued, for want of something better to say. "May I not walk ashort distance with you?"
"If you wish it," she replied, but with no great display ofgraciousness. It was very plain that she did not attach very muchcredence to his excuse, and it was equally certain that she wasinclined to resent it. Nothing was said on the latter point, however,and they strolled along the pavement together, he wondering how hecould best set himself right with her, and she combating a feeling ofimpending calamity, and at the same time trying to convince herselfthat she was extremely angry with him, not only for meeting her, butfor being in Paris at all. It was not until they reached the Rue desTuileries that Browne spoke.
"May we not go into the Gardens?" he asked a little nervously. "Ialways think that the children one sees there are the sweetest inEurope."
"If you wish," Katherine replied coldly. "I shall not be able to stayvery long, however, as Madame Bernstein will be expecting me."
Browne felt inclined to anathematise Madame Bernstein, as he had doneseveral times before; but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. Theyaccordingly crossed the road and entered the Gardens by the Broad Walk.Passing the Omphale by Eude and the statue of AEneas bearing Anchisesthrough the flames of Troy, they entered one of the small groves on theright, and seated themselves upon two chairs they found there. Anawkward silence followed, during which Katherine looked away in thedirection they had come, while Browne, his elbows on his knees, dugvic
iously into the path with the point of his umbrella, as if he wouldprobe his way down to the nether regions before he would let her get aninkling of his embarrassment. Three children with their attendant_bonnes_ passed them while they were so occupied, and one small toddlerof four or five stopped and regarded the silent couple before him.Katherine smiled at the child's chubby, earnest face, and Browne tookthis as a sign that the ice was breaking, though not so quickly as hecould have wished.
"I am afraid you are angry with me," he said, after the child hadpassed on his way again and they were left to each other's company."How have I been unfortunate enough to offend you?"
"I do not know that you have offended me at all," the girl replied,still looking away from him. "After all your kindness to me, I shouldbe very ungrateful if I were to treat you so."
"But there can be no doubt you _are_ offended," Browne replied. "Icould see from the expression on your face, when I met you on theboulevard just now, that you were annoyed with me for being there."
"I must confess I was surprised," she answered; "still, I certainly didnot wish you to think I was annoyed."
Browne thereupon took fresh heart, and resolved upon a bold plunge."But you were not pleased?" he said, and as he said it he watched herto see what effect his words produced. She still kept her face turnedaway. "Don't you think it was a little unkind of you to leave Londonso suddenly without either saying good-bye or giving the least warningof your intentions?" he continued, his spirits rising with every wordhe uttered.
"I was not certain that we were to leave so soon," the girl replied."It was not until yesterday morning that we found it would be necessaryfor us to set off at once. But how did you know that we _had_ left?"
Browne fell into the trap unheedingly.
"Because I called at your lodgings an hour after you had left, in thehope of seeing you," he answered promptly. "The servant who opened thedoor to me informed me that you and Madame Bernstein had departed forParis. You may imagine my surprise."
"But if you were there within an hour of our leaving, what train didyou catch?" she inquired, with a simplicity that could scarcely havefailed to entrap him.
"The eleven o'clock express from Charing Cross _via_ Dover and Calais,"he replied.
"You admit, then, that your important business in Paris was to followus?" she answered, and as she said it Browne realised what a mistake hehad made. She rose without another word, and made as if she wouldleave the Gardens. Browne also sprang to his feet, and laid his handupon her arm as if to detain her.
"Again I fear I have offended you," he said; "but believe me, I had notthe least intention of doing so. I think at least you should know mewell enough for that."
"But you should not have followed me at all," she said, her womanly witshowing her that if she wished to escape she must beg the question andattack the side issue. "It was not kind of you."
"Not kind?" he cried. "But why should it not be? I cannot see that Ihave done anything wrong; and, even if I have, will you not bemerciful?"
Large tears had risen in her eyes; her manner was firm, nevertheless.It seemed to Browne later on, when he recalled all that had happened onthat memorable morning, as if two emotions, pride and love, werestruggling in her breast for the mastery.
"Will you not forgive me?" he asked, more humbly than he had probablyever spoken to a human being in his life before.
"If you will promise not to repeat the offence," she replied, with afeeble attempt at a smile. "Remember, if I _do_ forgive you, I shallexpect you to adhere to your word."
"You do not know how hard it is for me to promise," said Browne; "butsince you wish it, I will do as you desire. I promise you I will notfollow you again."
"I thank you," she answered, and held out her hand. "I must go now, ormadame will be wondering what has become of me. Good-bye, Mr. Browne."
"But do you mean that I am never to see you again?" he inquired inconsternation.
"For the moment that is a question I cannot answer," she replied. "Ihave told you before that my time is not my own; nor do I know how longwe shall remain in Paris."
"But if I am to promise this, will you not promise _me_ something inreturn?" he asked, with a tremble in his voice that he could notcontrol.
"What is it you wish me to promise?" she inquired suspiciously. "Youmust tell me first."
"It is that you will not leave Paris without first informing me," heanswered. "I will not ask you to tell me where you are going, or askfor an interview. All I desire is that you should let me know that youare leaving the city."
She was silent for a moment.
"If you will give me your address, I will promise to write and let youknow," she said at last.
"I thank you," he answered. Then, refusing to allow him to accompanyher any farther, she held out her hand and bade him good-bye. Havingdone so, she passed up the Broad Walk in the direction they had come,and presently was lost to his view.
"Well, I am a fool if ever there was one," said Browne to himself whenhe was alone. "If only I had kept a silent tongue in my head aboutthat visit to the Warwick Road, I should not be in the hole I am now.I've scored one point, however; she has promised to let me know whenshe leaves Paris. I will stay here until that time arrives, on thechance of meeting her again, and then----. Well, what matters whathappens then? How sweet she is!"
The young man heaved a heavy sigh, and returned to his hotel by the Ruede Rivoli.
From that moment, and for upwards of a week, he neither saw nor heardanything further of her. Although he paraded the streets with untiringenergy, and even went so far as to pay periodical visits on foot to theRue Jacquarie, he was always disappointed. Then assistance came tohim, and from a totally unexpected quarter.
Upon returning to his hotel, after one of his interminableperegrinations, he found upon the table in his sitting-room a note,written on pale-pink paper and so highly scented that he became awareof its presence there almost before he entered the room. Wonderingfrom whom it could have come, for the writing was quite unknown to him,he opened it and scanned the contents. It was written in French, and,to his surprise, proved to be from Madame Bernstein.
"My dear Monsieur Browne," it ran, "if you could spare a friend a fewmoments of your valuable time, I should be so grateful if you could letme see you. The matter upon which I desire to consult you, as myletter would lead you to suppose, is an exceedingly important one.Should you chance to be disengaged to-morrow (Thursday) afternoon, Iwill remain in, in the hope of seeing you.-- Always your friend, andnever more than now,
"SOPHIE BERNSTEIN."
Browne read this curious epistle three times, and each time was fartherfrom being able to understand it. What was this matter upon whichMadame Bernstein desired to consult him? Could it have any connectionwith Katherine? If not, what else could it possibly be? And why didshe call herself his friend, and wind up with "and never more thannow"? It had one good point, however; it would, in all probability,furnish him with another opportunity of seeing the girl he loved. Andyet there were twenty hours to be disposed of before he could possiblykeep the appointment. Never in his life had time seemed so long.
Punctually to the minute he arrived at the door of the commonplacebuilding in the Rue Jacquarie. The _concierge_ looked out from hercubby-hole at him, and inquired his business. In reply he asked thenumber of Madame Bernstein's rooms, and, having been informed, wentupstairs in search of them. He had not very far to go, however, for heencountered madame herself on the landing half-way up.
"Ah, monsieur!" she cried, holding out her hand with an impetuousgesture, that was as theatrical as her usual behaviour, "this is mostkind of you to come to see me so promptly. I know that I amtrespassing both upon your good nature and your time."
"I hope you will not mention that," said Browne politely. "If I can beof any use to you, I think you know you may command me."
"It is not for myself that I have asked you to come," she answered."But do not let u
s talk here. Will you not accompany me to my rooms?"
She accordingly led the way up the next flight of stairs and along acorridor to a room that was half drawing-room half boudoir. Madamecarefully closed the door, and then bade him be seated. Browne tookpossession of an easy-chair, wondering what was going to happen next.