When Browne reached the Rue Jacquarie, after his receipt of the letter
which had caused him so much pain and consternation, it was to learn
that Katherine was not at home, and to find Madame Bernstein in her
sitting-room, sniffing vigorously at a bottle of smelling-salts, and on
the verge of hysterics. Seeing Browne, she sprang to her feet with a
cry 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 through
such a scene with Katherine that my nerves are quite unstrung."
"Where is Katherine?" Browne inquired almost angrily, and quite
ignoring the description of her woes; "and what is the meaning of the
letter she wrote me this morning?"
"You must not be angry with her," said Madame, approaching and laying
her hand gently upon his arm, while she looked up into his face, with
what was intended to be a piteous expression. "The poor child is only
doing what she deems to be right. You would not have her act
otherwise, I know."
"You understand my feelings, I think," Browne replied bluntly. "At the
same time, I know how over-conscientious she is apt to be in such
matters. Cannot I see her? Where is she?"
"She has gone out," said Madame, with a sigh. "She and I, I am sorry
to say, had a little disagreement this morning over her treatment of
you. 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 and
yours without uttering a protest. As a result, she did what she always
does--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 was
beginning to feel that everything and everybody were conspiring against
him. "Has she any usual haunts, where I should run a moderate chance
of coming across her?"
"On that point I am afraid I can say nothing," answered Madame. "She
seldom takes me into her confidence. Yet, stay; I _do_ remember having
heard her once say that, when she was put out by anything, the only
thing that could soothe her, and set her right again, was a visit to
the 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 the
only things in Paris in which she seems to take any interest. She is
insane on the subject."
"In that case I'll try the Louvre at once," said Browne, picking up his
hat.
"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 ever
yet spoken to her; "but, if you do not mind, I would rather hear that
from her own lips."
With that he bade Madame good-bye, and made his way down to the street
once more. From the Rue Jacquarie to the Louvre is not more than a ten
minutes' drive at most--that is to say, if you proceed by the Avenue de
l'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 few
people were to be seen in the corridors, a circumstance for which
Browne was devoutly thankful. It was not until he reached Room IV.
that he knew he was not to have his journey in vain. Standing before
Titian's "Entombment of Christ," her hands clasped before her, was
Katherine. Her whole being seemed absorbed in enjoyment of the
picture, and it was not until he was close to her that she turned and
saw him. When she did, he noticed that her face was very white and
haggard, 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 this
morning," he answered. "Surely, Katherine, you did not think I should
do 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 uttered
the 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 that
mine is such a fair-weather love that it must be destroyed by the first
adverse wind? Try it and see."
"But I cannot and must not," she answered; and then she added, with
such a weight of sorrow in her voice, that it was as much as he could
do 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," he
declared. "What am I here for, if not to help you? You do not seem to
have realised my proper position in the world. If you are not very
careful, 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 the
management 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 no
means a laughing matter to me."
"Nor is it to me," answered Browne. "I should have liked you to have
seen my face when I read your letter. I firmly believe I was the most
miserable man in Europe."
She offered no reply to this speech, and perhaps that was why a little
old gentleman, the same old man in the threadbare black cloak and
old-fashioned hat who haunts the galleries, and who entered at that
moment, imagined that they were quarrelling.
"Come," said the young man at last, "let us find a place where we can
sit down and talk unobserved. Then we'll thrash the matter out
properly."
"But it will be no use," replied Katherine. "Believe me, I have
thought it out most carefully, and have quite made up my mind what I
must 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 resolutions
that you, on your side, must not ask me to break. In that case it
seems that we have come to a deadlock, and the only way out of it is
for us to start afresh, to discuss the matter thoroughly, and so arrive
at an understanding. Come along; I know an excellent corner, where we
can talk without fear of being disturbed. Let us find it."
Seeing that to protest would be useless, and deriving a feeling of
safety from his masterfulness, she allowed him to lead her along the
galleries until they reached the corner to which he had referred. No
one was in sight, not even the little old man in the cloak, who was
probably gloating, according to custom, over the "Venus del Pardo" in
Room VI.
"Now let us sit down," said Browne, pointing to the seat, "and you must
tell me everything. Remember, I have a right to know; and reflect also
that, if there is any person in this wide world who can help you, it is
I, 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 it
within his own as if to give her courage.
"Tell me everything, darling," he said--"everything from the very
beginning to the end. Then I shall know how to help you. I can see
that you have been worrying yourself about it more than is good for
your health. Let me share the responsibility with you."
She had to admit to herself that, after all, it was good to have a man
to lean upon, to feel that such a pillar of strength was behind her.
For this reason she unconsciously drew a little closer to him, as
though she would seek shelter in his arms and defy the world from that
place of security.
"Now let me have your story," said Browne. "Hide nothing from me; for
only when I know all, shall I be in a position to say how I am to help
you."
He felt a shudder sweep over her as he said this, and a considerable
interval elapsed before she replied. When she did her voice was harsh
and 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 my
pitiful tale. And yet I feel that I should be doing you a far greater
wrong if I were to keep silence. It is not for myself that I feel
this, but for you. Whatever may be my fate, whatever may come later, I
want you always to remember that."
"I will remember," her lover replied softly. "But you must not think
of me at all, dear. I am content to serve you. Now tell me
everything."
Once more she was silent for a few moments, as though she were
collecting her thoughts; then she commenced her tale.