The Red Rat's Daughter Part 8

Shutting the window at last, he washed off the stains of travel, changed his attire, and descended to the dining-hall.

Having no desire to lose time, he resolved to inst.i.tute inquiries at once about the Rue Jacquarie, and to seek, and if possible to obtain, an interview with Katherine before she could possibly depart from Paris again. How was he to know that Madame Bernstein's plans might not necessitate another removal to Rome, Berlin, or St. Petersburg?--in which case he might very easily lose sight of her altogether. He had never trusted madame, and since her departure from England he was even less disposed to do so than before. There was something about her that he did not altogether appreciate. He had told himself that he did not like her the first day he had met her at Merok, and he was even more convinced of the fact now. What the link was between the two women he could not think, and he was almost afraid to attempt to solve the mystery.

Dinner at an end, he rose and went to his room to put on a cloak. In love though he was, he had still sufficient of his father's prudence left to be careful of his health.

Descending to the courtyard once more, he called a fiacre, and, when the man had driven up, inquired whether he knew where the Rue Jacquarie was. The man looked at him with some show of surprise.

"Oui, m'sieu," he replied, "I know the Rue Jacquarie, of course; but----"

"Never mind any buts," Browne replied, as he jumped into the cab. "I have business in the Rue Jacquarie, so drive me there at once."

"To what number?" the man inquired, in a tone that implied that he was not over-anxious for the job.

"Never mind the number," said Browne; "drive me to the corner and set me down there."

The man whipped up his horse, and they started _via_ the Rue Tronchet.

Turning into the Rue St. Honore, and thence into the Place de la Madeleine, they proceeded in the direction of Montmartre. For some time Browne endeavoured to keep tally of the route; eventually, however, he was obliged to relinquish the attempt in despair. From one street they pa.s.sed into another, and to Browne it seemed that every one was alike. At last the driver stopped his horse.

"This is the Rue Jacquarie," he said, pointing with his whip down a long and somewhat dingy thoroughfare.

Browne bade him wait for him, and then proceeded down the street on foot in search of No. 35. After the magnificent quarter of the city in which he had installed himself, the Rue Jacquarie seemed mean and contemptible in the extreme. The houses were small and dingy, and it was plain that they were occupied by people who were not the possessors of any conspicuous degree of wealth. He walked the whole length of the street in search of No. 35, and, not finding it, returned upon the other side. At last he discovered the house he wanted. He thereupon crossed the road, and, standing on the opposite pavement, regarded it steadfastly.

Lights shone from three of the windows, and Browne's pulses beat more quickly as he reflected that it was just possible one of them might emanate from Katherine's room.

It was now close upon ten o'clock, and if all had gone well with them the girl should now have been in Paris some three hours. It was extremely unlikely that, after such a journey, she would have gone out, so that he had every reason for feeling certain she must be in the house before him. In spite of the thin rain that was falling, he stood and watched the building for some minutes. Once a woman's shadow pa.s.sed across a blind upon the second floor, and Browne felt his heart leap as he saw it. A few moments later a man and a woman pa.s.sed the concierge. They paused upon the doorstep to wish some one within "good-night"; then, descending the steps, they set off in the same direction in which Browne himself had come. Before doing so, however, they turned and looked up and down the street, as if they were afraid they might be observed. Seeing Browne watching the house, they hastened their steps, and presently disappeared down a side thoroughfare. For an ordinary observer this small event might have had little or no significance; but to Browne, in whose mind indefinable suspicions were already shaping themselves, it seemed more than a little disquieting. That they had noticed him, and that they were alarmed by the knowledge that he was watching the house, was as plain as the lights in the windows opposite. But why they should have been so frightened was what puzzled him. What was going on in the house, or rather what had they been doing that they should fear being overlooked?

He asked himself these questions as he paced down the street in the direction of his cab. But he could not answer them to his satisfaction.

"Drive me to the Amphitryon Club," he said, as he took his place in the vehicle once more; and then continued to himself, "I'd give something to understand what it all means."

CHAPTER VIII

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 pa.s.sed 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 const.i.tution. 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d 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 gla.s.s of cold water, tried to picture sheep jumping over a hedge; but in vain. Do what he would, the drowsy G.o.d 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.

Pa.s.sing 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 embarra.s.sment. Three children with their attendant _bonnes_ pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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."