How Browne got back to his hotel is a mystery to this day. He had an
insane desire to tell every one he met of his good fortune. He wanted
to do something to make other people as happy as himself, and, for the
reason that he could find no one else at the moment, had to be content
with overtipping his cabman, and emptying all his spare change into the
hands of a beggar in the Place Vendome. The afternoon was gray and
cold; but never had the world seemed so fair to him, or so full of
sunshine. He told himself over and over again that he was the luckiest
man on earth. He had already built himself several castles in the air,
from the battlements of which the banner of Love was waving gaily.
What a difference he would make in Katherine's life! She had been poor
hitherto; now his wealth, the proper use of which he had never before
realised, should be devoted to giving her everything that a woman could
dream of or desire. In his satisfaction with himself and the world in
general, he even forgot his usual dislike for Madame Bernstein. Was it
not due to her action, he asked himself, that the present happy state
of affairs had been brought about? In return he would show her that he
was grateful. As for the morrow, and the excursion to Fontainebleau,
he would send his man at once to arrange for a special train, in order
that they might run no risk of being disturbed or inconvenienced by
other tourists. On second thoughts, however, he changed his mind. He
would not do anything so absurd. He might be a _parvenu_, in a certain
sense, but he did not want to prove himself one to her. No; they would
go down quietly, sensibly, and unostentatiously like other people.
They would enjoy the outing all the more if they did not attract
unnecessary attention. Then another idea struck him, and he acted upon
it immediately. Putting on his hat once more, he left the hotel, and
proceeded in the direction of a certain jeweller's shop. Having
entered it, he approached the counter, and asked for a plain gold ring
of heavy pattern. He had at first been tempted to buy her one set with
diamonds and a bracelet to correspond--two articles that should be so
perfect that even millionaires' wives should envy. That time, however,
would come later on. At present all that was wanted was something
good, plain, and in perfect taste. He felt sure she would understand
his action, and think the better of him for it.
Anticipating a large order from the wealthy young Englishman, whom he
recognised immediately, the shopkeeper was a little disappointed. But
he tried not to show it. With his precious purchase in his pocket, the
happy young man returned to his hotel to dress for the evening's
entertainment. Needless to say, he was the first to arrive at the
rendezvous, but it was not very long before Madame Bernstein and
Katherine put in an appearance. Browne met them at the door and
conducted them upstairs to the room he had reserved. If the dinner he
had given them in London had proved a success, this one was destined to
prove much more so. Madame and Browne were in the highest spirits,
while Katharine, though a little shy and reserved, had improved
considerably since the afternoon. Before they separated, arrangements
were completed for the morning's excursion. Browne, it was settled,
was to call for Katherine in time to catch the early train, and, in
return for the trust reposed in him, he pledged himself to return her
safely to her guardian before nine in the evening. Before he retired
to rest that night he opened the window of his bedroom and studied the
heavens with an anxious face. A few clouds were to be seen away to the
north-west, but elsewhere the stars were shining brightly. Taken
altogether, there seemed to be every reasonable chance of their having
a fine day for the excursion.
But, alas! how futile are human hopes, for when he woke next morning a
grievous disappointment was in store for him. Clouds covered the sky,
and a thick drizzle was falling. A more miserable and dispiriting
prelude to the day could scarcely be imagined. His disappointment was
intense; and yet, in a life that seemed as dead to him now as the
Neolithic Period, he remembered that he had gone cub-hunting in
England, had fished in Norway, and shot over his deer-forest in the
Highlands in equally bad weather, and without a grumble or a protest.
On the present occasion, however, everything was different; it seemed
to him as if he had a personal grievance to settle with Dame Nature;
and in this spirit he dressed, ate his breakfast, and finally set off
in a cab for the Rue Jacquarie. Whether Katherine would go out or not
he could not say, but he half-expected she would decline. Having
passed the _concierge_, he made his way upstairs to Madame Bernstein's
sitting-room. Neither of the ladies was there, but, after he had
waited for a few minutes, Katherine put in an appearance, dressed in a
tight-fitting costume of some dark material which displayed her slender
figure to perfection.
"What a terrible day!" she said, as she glanced out of the window. "Do
you think we can go?"
"I will leave it for you to decide," he answered. "If you consider it
too wet we can easily put it off for another day."
Something in his face must have told her how disappointed he would be
if she refused. She accordingly took pity on him.
"Let us go," she said. "I have no doubt it will clear up later on.
Must we start at once?"
"If we wish to catch the train we should leave here in about ten
minutes at latest," he answered.
She thereupon left the room, to return presently with a cup of steaming
chocolate.
"I made this for you myself," she said. "It will keep you warm. While
you are drinking it, if you will excuse me, I will go and get ready."
When she returned they made their way to the cab, and in it set off for
the railway station. Rain was still falling as the train made its way
along the beautiful valley of the Yeres, and it had not ceased when
they had reached Melun. After that Dame Nature changed her mind, and,
before they reached their destination, the clouds were drawing off, and
long streaks of blue sky were to be plainly observed all round the
horizon. They left the station in a flood of sunshine; and by the time
they had crossed the gravelled courtyard and approached the main
entrance to the palace, the sun was as warm and pleasant as on a spring
day.
It would be difficult to over-estimate the pleasure Browne derived from
that simple excursion. He had visited Fontainebleau many times before,
but never had he thought it so beautiful or half so interesting as he
did on the present occasion. When she had overcome the first novelty
of her position, Katherine adapted herself to it with marvellous
celerity. Side by side they wandered through those rooms of many
memories, in the wake of the custodian, whom they could not persuade to
allow them to pass through alone, even under the stimulus of a large
gratuity. Passing through the apartments of Napoleon, of Marie
Antoinette, of Francis the First, they speculated and mused over the
cradle of the infant king of Rome, and the equally historic table upon
which Napoleon signed his abdication.
The wonders of the palace exhausted, they proceeded into the gardens,
visited and fed the famous carp, tested the merits of the labyrinth,
and marvelled at the vineries. Finally they returned to the village in
search of luncheon. The afternoon was devoted to exploring the forest,
and when dusk had descended they dined at the Hotel de France et
d'Angleterre, and afterwards returned to Paris. It was during the
homeward journey, that Browne found occasion to carry out a little
scheme, of which he had been thinking all day. Taking from his pocket
the ring he had purchased on the previous evening, he secured
Katherine's hand and slipped it on her slender finger.
"The symbol of my love, darling," he said softly. "As this little
circlet of gold surrounds your finger, so my love will encompass you on
every side throughout your life. Wear it in remembrance of my words."
Her heart being too full to answer him, she could only press his hand,
and leave it to him to understand.
Faithful to his promise, he delivered Katherine into the keeping of her
guardian before nine o'clock. Both declared that they had had a
delightful day, and Madame Bernstein expressed her joy at hearing it.
It seemed to Browne, however, that there was an air of suppressed
excitement about her on this particular evening which he could not
understand. When he bade them good-bye he returned to his hotel,
feeling that he had come to the end of the happiest day of all his life.
Next morning he was standing in the hall preparatory to going out, when
his servant approached him and handed him a note. One glance at the
address was sufficient to tell him from whom it came. He had only seen
the handwriting once before, but every letter had been engraved upon
his heart. He tore it open, delighted at receiving it, yet wondering
at her reason for communicating with him.
"Dear love," it began, "when you asked me the other day to be your
wife, I tried so hard to make you see that what you wished was quite
impossible. Yesterday we were so happy together; and now I have had
some news which makes me see, even more clearly than I did then, that I
have no right to let you link your life with mine. Hard as it is for
me to have to say it, I have no choice left but to do so. You must
forget me; and, if you can, forgive me. But remember always this
promise that I give you: if I cannot marry you, no other man shall ever
call me wife.--KATHERINE PETROVITCH."
Browne stood for some moments, like a man dazed, in the hall among the
crowd of happy tourists, holding the letter in his hand, and staring
straight before him. His whole being seemed numbed and dead. He could
not understand it; he could not even realise that she was attempting to
put herself out of his life for ever.
"There must be some mistake," he whispered to himself; and then added:
"She admits that she loves me, and yet she wants to give me up. I will
not allow myself to think that it can be true. I must go to her at
once, and see her, and hear it from her own lips before I will believe."
He thereupon went out into the street, called a cab, and set off for
the Rue Jacquarie.