"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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance 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 trespa.s.sing 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.
CHAPTER IX
"Now, Monsieur Browne," said Madame Bernstein, as she seated herself with her back to the window, "we can talk in comfort, and, what is better still, without fear of being disturbed. It is indeed kind of you to come and see me, for I expect you were considerably surprised at receiving my poor little note yesterday. What you must have thought of it I dare not think; but I must console myself with the reflection, that it was written in the interests of another person, whose happiness is dearer to me than I can make you understand. To tell you the truth, it is a most delicate matter. I think you will admit as much when you have heard what I have to say."
Browne accordingly reserved his judgment. His distrust of the woman, however, was rapidly coming back upon him, and he could not help feeling that, plausible as her words were, and desirous as she appeared to be of helping a third person, she was in some way attempting to deceive himself.
"I beg that you will not consider me at all in the matter," he said, seeing that he was expected to say something. "I am, as you know, only too glad to do anything I can to help you. Perhaps it is regarding Mademoiselle Petrovitch that you desire to speak to me?"
"You have guessed correctly," said madame. "It is about Katherine.
The poor child, as I have reason to know, is in terrible trouble just now."
"I am indeed sorry to hear that," said Browne, a fear of he knew not what taking possession of him. "But I hope the trouble is one that can be easily set right."
"It is possible it may," madame replied. "But I think it depends, if you will permit me to say so, in a very great measure upon yourself."
"Upon me?" cried the young man, this time with real surprise. "How can that be? I should never forgive myself if I thought I had made Miss Petrovitch unhappy."