The Red Rat's Daughter, Guy Boothby [most read book in the world TXT] 📗

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.


CHAPTER XI


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