Now the Amphitryon Club is situated in the Avenue de l'Opera, as all
the world knows, and is one of the most exclusive and distinguished
clubs in Europe. Browne had been a member for many years, and during
his stays in Paris was usually to be found there.
It was a fine building, in which everything was done in the most
sumptuous and luxurious fashion. You might lunch there on bread and
cheese or a Porter-house steak; but the bread, the cheese, and the
steak, while unpretentious in themselves, would be the very best
obtainable of their kind. What led him there on that particular
evening Browne did not quite know. It was Destiny! Blind Fate had him
in hand, and was luring him on to what was to be the most momentous
half-hour of his life. He knew he was pretty certain of finding some
one there with whom he was acquainted; but he was certainly not
prepared for the surprise, which greeted him, when he pushed open the
swing-doors and passed into the smoking-room. Seated in a chair by the
fire, and looking into it in the meditative fashion of a man, who has
dined well and feels disinclined for much exertion, was no less a
person than Maas.
"Mon cher ami," he cried, springing to his feet and holding out his
hand, "this is a delightful surprise. I had no notion you were in
Paris."
"I only arrived this evening," Browne replied. "But I might return the
compliment, for I thought you were in St. Petersburg."
"No such thing," said Maas, shaking his head. "Petersburg at this time
of the year does not agree with my constitution. To be able to
appreciate it one must have Slav blood in one's veins, which I am
discourteous enough to be glad to say I have not. But what brings you
to the gay city? Is it on business or pleasure? But there, I need not
ask. I should have remembered that business does not enter into your
life."
"A false conclusion on your part," said Browne as he lit a cigar. "For
a man who has nothing to do, I have less leisure than many people who
declare they are overworked."
"By the way," Maas continued, "they tell me we have to congratulate you
at last."
"Upon what?" Browne inquired. "What have I done now that the world
should desire to wish me well?"
"I refer to your approaching marriage," said Maas. "Deauville was in
here the other day, _en route_ to Cannes, and he told us that it was
stated in a London paper that you were about to be married. I told him
I felt sure he must be mistaken. If you had been I should probably
have known it."
"It's not true," said Browne angrily. "Deauville should know better
than 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 every
silly rumour he sees in the press. I assured him that you were worth a
good many married men yet."
As he said this Maas watched Browne's face carefully. What he saw
there must have satisfied him on certain points upon which he was
anxious for information, for he smiled a trifle sardonically, and
immediately changed the conversation by inquiring what Browne intended
doing that night.
"Going home to bed," said Browne promptly. "I have had a long day's
travelling, and I've a lot to do to-morrow. I think, if you'll excuse
me, 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 put
my rooms at your disposal. But there, I forgot you have your own
magnificent palace to go to. To offer you hospitality would be
superfluous."
"You talk of my house as if I should be likely to go there," said
Browne scornfully. "You know as well as I do that I never enter the
doors. What should I do in a caravanserai like that? No; I am staying
at the usual place in the Place Vendome. Now, good-night once more."
"Good-night," said Maas, and Browne accordingly left the room. When
the swingdoors had closed behind him Maas went back to his chair and
lit another cigarette.
"Our friend Browne is bent upon making a fool of himself," he said to
his cigarette; "and, what is worse, he will put me to a lot of trouble
and inconvenience. At this stage of the proceedings, however, it would
be worse than useless to endeavour to check him. He has got the bit
between his teeth, and would bolt right out if I were to try to bring
him to a standstill. The only thing that can be done, as far as I can
see, is to sit still and watch the comedy, and step in like the god out
of the machine, when all is ready."
Having thus expressed himself, he lit another cigarette, and went off
in 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 was
responsible for it, I cannot say; one thing, however, is quite certain:
do what he would, he could not sleep. He tried all the proverbial
recipes in vain. He walked about his room, drank a glass of cold
water, tried to picture sheep jumping over a hedge; but in vain. Do
what he would, the drowsy god would not listen to his appeal. Indeed,
the first beams of the morning sun were stealing into his room before
his eyelids closed. When his man came in to dress him he felt as
drowsy as if he had not closed his eyes all night. He was not going to
lie in bed, however. During breakfast he debated with himself what he
should do with regard to the Rue Jacquarie. Should he loiter about the
streets in the hope of intercepting Katherine when she went abroad? Or
should he take the bull by the horns and march boldly up to the house
and ask for an interview? Anxious as he was to see her, he had no
desire to thrust his presence upon her if it was not wanted. He knew
that 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 put
on his hat and set out for a stroll. The clouds of the previous night
had 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 a
thing unknown to him. Then, suddenly, he found himself face to face
with Katherine Petrovitch!
He lifted his hat mechanically, but for a moment he stood rooted to the
spot with surprise, not knowing what to say or do. Great as was his
astonishment, however, hers was infinitely greater. She stood before
him, her colour coming and going, and with a frightened look in her
eyes.
"Mr. Browne, what does this mean?" she asked, with a little catch of
the breath. "You are the last person I expected to see in Paris."
"I was called over here on important business," he replied, with
unblushing mendacity; and as he said it he watched her face, and found
it more troubled than he had ever yet seen it. "But why, even if we
are surprised to see each other, should we remain standing here?" he
continued, for want of something better to say. "May I not walk a
short distance with you?"
"If you wish it," she replied, but with no great display of
graciousness. It was very plain that she did not attach very much
credence to his excuse, and it was equally certain that she was
inclined to resent it. Nothing was said on the latter point, however,
and they strolled along the pavement together, he wondering how he
could best set himself right with her, and she combating a feeling of
impending calamity, and at the same time trying to convince herself
that she was extremely angry with him, not only for meeting her, but
for being in Paris at all. It was not until they reached the Rue des
Tuileries that Browne spoke.
"May we not go into the Gardens?" he asked a little nervously. "I
always think that the children one sees there are the sweetest in
Europe."
"If you wish," Katherine replied coldly. "I shall not be able to stay
very long, however, as Madame Bernstein will be expecting me."
Browne felt inclined to anathematise Madame Bernstein, as he had done
several times before; but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. They
accordingly crossed the road and entered the Gardens by the Broad Walk.
Passing the Omphale by Eude and the statue of AEneas bearing Anchises
through the flames of Troy, they entered one of the small groves on the
right, and seated themselves upon two chairs they found there. An
awkward silence followed, during which Katherine looked away in the
direction they had come, while Browne, his elbows on his knees, dug
viciously into the path with the point of his umbrella, as if he would
probe his way down to the nether regions before he would let her get an
inkling of his embarrassment. Three children with their attendant
_bonnes_ passed them while they were so occupied, and one small toddler
of four or five stopped and regarded the silent couple before him.
Katherine smiled at the child's chubby, earnest face, and Browne took
this as a sign that the ice was breaking, though not so quickly as he
could have wished.
"I am afraid you are angry with me," he said, after the child had
passed 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 should
be very ungrateful if I were to treat you so."
"But there can be no doubt you _are_ offended," Browne replied. "I
could see from the expression on your face, when I met you on the
boulevard just now, that you were annoyed with me for being there."
"I must confess I was surprised," she answered; "still, I certainly did
not 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 her
to see what effect his words produced. She still kept her face turned
away. "Don't you think it was a little unkind of you to leave London
so suddenly without either saying good-bye or giving the least warning
of your intentions?" he continued, his spirits rising with every word
he 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 necessary
for 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 the
hope of seeing you," he answered promptly. "The servant who opened the
door to me informed me that you and Madame Bernstein had departed for
Paris. You may imagine my surprise."
"But if you were there within an hour of our leaving, what train did
you catch?" she inquired, with a simplicity that could scarcely have
failed 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 follow
us?" she answered, and as she said it Browne realised what a mistake he
had made. She rose without another word, and made as if she would
leave the Gardens. Browne also sprang to his feet, and laid his hand
upon her arm as if to detain her.
"Again I fear I have offended you," he said; "but believe me, I had not
the least intention of doing so. I think at least you should know me
well enough for that."
"But you should not have followed me at all," she said, her womanly wit
showing her that if she wished to escape she must beg the question and
attack the side issue. "It was not kind of you."
"Not kind?" he cried. "But why should it not be? I cannot see that I
have done anything wrong; and, even if I have, will you not be
merciful?"
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 on
that memorable morning, as if two emotions, pride and love, were
struggling in her breast for the mastery.
"Will you not forgive me?" he asked, more humbly than he had probably
ever spoken to a human being in his life before.
"If you will promise not to repeat the offence," she replied, with a
feeble attempt at a smile. "Remember, if I _do_ forgive you, I shall
expect you to adhere to your word."
"You do not know how hard it is for me to promise," said Browne; "but
since you wish it, I will do as you desire. I promise you I will not
follow you again."
"I thank you," she answered, and held out her hand. "I must go now, or
madame 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 in
consternation.
"For the moment that is a question I cannot answer," she replied. "I
have told you before that my time is not my own; nor do I know how long
we shall remain in Paris."
"But if I am to promise this, will you not promise _me_ something in
return?" he asked, with a tremble in his voice that he could not
control.
"What is it you wish me to promise?" she inquired suspiciously. "You
must tell me first."
"It is that you will not leave Paris without first informing me," he
answered. "I will not ask you to tell me where you are going, or ask
for an interview. All I desire is that you should let me know that you
are leaving the city."
She was silent for a moment.
"If you will give me your address, I will promise to write and let you
know," she said at last.
"I thank you," he answered. Then, refusing to allow him to accompany
her any farther, she held out her hand and bade him good-bye. Having
done 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 when
he was alone. "If only I had kept a silent tongue in my head about
that 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 when
she leaves Paris. I will stay here until that time arrives, on the
chance of meeting her again, and then----. Well, what matters what
happens then? How sweet she is!"
The young man heaved a heavy sigh, and returned to his hotel by the Rue
de Rivoli.
From that moment, and for upwards of a week, he neither saw nor heard
anything further of her. Although he paraded the streets with untiring
energy, and even went so far as to pay periodical visits on foot to the
Rue Jacquarie, he was always disappointed. Then assistance came to
him, and from a totally unexpected quarter.
Upon returning to his hotel, after one of his interminable
peregrinations, he found upon the table in his sitting-room a note,
written on pale-pink paper and so highly scented that he became aware
of its presence there almost before he entered the room. Wondering
from 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 few
moments of your valuable time, I should be so grateful if you could let
me see you. The matter upon which I desire to consult you, as my
letter would lead you to suppose, is an exceedingly important one.
Should you chance to be disengaged to-morrow (Thursday) afternoon, I
will remain in, in the hope of seeing you.-- Always your friend, and
never more than now,
"SOPHIE BERNSTEIN."
Browne read this curious epistle three times, and each time was farther
from being able to understand it. What was this matter upon which
Madame Bernstein desired to consult him? Could it have any connection
with Katherine? If not, what else could it possibly be? And why did
she call herself his friend, and wind up with "and never more than
now"? It had one good point, however; it would, in all probability,
furnish him with another opportunity of seeing the girl he loved. And
yet there were twenty hours to be disposed of before he could possibly
keep the appointment. Never in his life had time seemed so long.
Punctually to the minute he arrived at the door of the commonplace
building in the Rue Jacquarie. The _concierge_ looked out from her
cubby-hole at him, and inquired his business. In reply he asked the
number of Madame Bernstein's rooms, and, having been informed, went
upstairs in search of them. He had not very far to go, however, for he
encountered madame herself on the landing half-way up.
"Ah, monsieur!" she cried, holding out her hand with an impetuous
gesture, that was as theatrical as her usual behaviour, "this is most
kind of you to come to see me so promptly. I know that I am
trespassing both upon your good nature and your time."
"I hope you will not mention that," said Browne politely. "If I can be
of 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 us talk here. Will you not accompany me to my rooms?"
She accordingly led the way up the next flight of stairs and along a
corridor to a room that was half drawing-room half boudoir. Madame
carefully closed the door, and then bade him be seated. Browne took
possession of an easy-chair, wondering what was going to happen next.