The Red Rat's Daughter by Guy Boothby (books to read in your 20s .txt) 📕

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