The Red Rat's Daughter

"How long do you think it will be before I may venture to see you again?" Browne asked the girl when they were alone together.

"I cannot say," she replied, with an attempt at a smile. "I do not know what Madame Bernstein's arrangements are."

"But surely Madame Bernstein does not control all your actions?" he asked, I fear a little angrily; for he did not like to think she was so dependent on the elder woman.

"No, she does not altogether control them, of course," Katherine replied; "but I always have so much to do for her that I do not feel justified in making any arrangements without first consulting her."

"But you must surely have some leisure," he continued. "Perhaps you shop in the High Street, or walk in the Park or Kensington Gardens on fine mornings. Might I not chance to find you in one of those places?"

"I fear not," she answered, shaking her head. "If it is fine I have my work to do."

"And if it should be wet?" asked Browne, feeling his heart sink within him as he realised that she was purposely placing obstacles in the way of their meeting. "Surely you cannot paint when the days are as gloomy as they have been lately."

"No," she answered; "that is impossible. But it gives me no more leisure than before; for in that case I have letters to write for Madame Bernstein, and she has an enormous amount of correspondence."

Though Browne wondered what that correspondence could be, he said nothing to her on the subject, nor had he any desire to thrust his presence upon the girl when he saw she was not anxious for it. It was plain to him that there was something behind it all – some reason to account for her pallor and her quietness that evening. What that reason was, however, he could not for the life of him understand.

They had arrived at this point when the carriage reached the door. Madame Bernstein and Foote accordingly approached them, and the quartette walked together towards the entrance.

"I thank you many times for your kindness to-night," said Katherine, looking shyly up at Browne.

"Please, don't thank me," he replied. "It is I who should thank you. I hope you have enjoyed yourself."

"Very much indeed," she answered. "I could see Lohengrin a hundred times without growing in the least tired of it."

As she said this they reached the carriage. Browne placed the ladies in it, and shook hands with them as he bade them good-night. He gave the footman his instructions, and presently the carriage rolled away, leaving the two young men standing on the pavement, looking after it. It was a beautiful starlight night, with a touch of frost in the air.

"Are we going to take a cab, or shall we walk?" said Foote.

"Let us walk, that is if you don't mind," Browne replied. "I feel as if I could enjoy a ten-mile tramp to-night after the heat of that theatre."

"I'm afraid I do not," Foote replied. "My idea is the 'Périgord' for a little supper, and then to bed. Browne, old man, I have been through a good deal for you to-night. I like the young lady very much, but Madame Bernstein is – well, she is Madame Bernstein. I can say no more."

"Never mind, old chap," said Browne, patting his companion on the shoulder. "You have the satisfaction of knowing that your martyrdom is appreciated; the time may come when you will want me to do the same thing for you. One good turn deserves another, you know."

"When I want a turn of that description done for me, I will be sure to let you know," Foote continued; "but if I have any sort of luck, it will be many years before I come to you with such a request. When I remember that, but for my folly in showing you that picture in Waterloo Place, we should by this time be on the other side of the Eddystone, en route for the Mediterranean and sunshine, I feel as if I could sit down and weep. However, it is kismet, I suppose?"

Browne offered no reply.

"Are you coming in?" said Foote as they reached the doorstep of the Périgord Club.

"No, thank you, old man," said Browne. "I think, if you will excuse me, I will get home."

"Good-night, then," said Foote; "I shall probably see you in the morning."

Having bidden him good-night, Browne proceeded on his way.

Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he betook himself to Kensington Gardens, where he wandered about for upwards of an hour, but saw no sign of the girl he hoped to meet. Leaving the Gardens, he made his way to the High Street, with an equally futile result. Regardless of the time he was wasting, and of everything else, he passed on in the direction of Addison Road. As disappointment still pursued him, he made up his mind to attempt a forlorn hope. Turning into the Melbury Road, he made for German Park Road, and reaching the studio, rang the bell. When the door was opened he found himself confronted with an elderly person, wearing a sack for an apron, and holding a bar of yellow soap in her hand.

"I have called to see Miss Petrovitch," he said.

"She is not at home, sir," the woman replied. "She has not been here this morning. Can I give her any message?"

"I am afraid not," Browne replied. "I wanted to see her personally; but you might tell her that Mr. Browne called."

"Mr. Browne," she repeated. "Very good, sir. You may be sure I will tell her."

Browne thanked her, and, to make assurance doubly sure, slipped five shillings into her hand. Then, passing out of the garden, he made his way back to the High Street. He had not proceeded more than a hundred yards down that interesting thoroughfare, however, before he saw no less a person than Katherine herself approaching him.

They were scarcely a dozen paces apart when she recognised him.

"Good-morning, Miss Petrovitch," he said, raising his hat and speaking a little nervously. "I have just called at your studio in the hope that I might see you. The woman told me that she did not know when you would return. I thought I might possibly meet you here."

It was a poor enough excuse, but the only one he could think of at the moment.

"You wanted to see me?" she said in a tone of surprise.

"Are you angry with me for that?" he asked. "I did not think you would be; but if you are I will go away again. By this time you should know that I have no desire save to make you happy."

This was the first time he had spoken so plainly. Her face paled a little.

"I did not know that you were so anxious to see me," she said, "or I would have made a point of being at home."

All this time they had been standing on the spot where they had first met.

"Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?" said Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.

"I shall be very pleased," she answered promptly.

Thereupon they walked back in the direction of the studio.

At the gate they stopped. She turned and faced him, and as she did so she held out her hand; it was plain that she had arrived at a decision on some important point.

"Good-bye, Mr. Browne," she said, and as she said it Browne noticed that her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears. He could bear it no longer.

"Miss Petrovitch," he began, "you must forgive my rudeness; but I feel sure that you are not happy. Will you not trust me and let me help you? You know how gladly I would do so."

"There is no way in which you can help me," she answered, and then she bade him good-bye, and, with what Browne felt sure was a little sob, vanished into the studio. For some moments he stood waiting where he was, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her exit, and hoping she might come out again; then, realising that she did not intend doing so, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the High Street, and so to Park Lane. His afternoon was a broken and restless one; he could not rid himself of the recollection of the girl's face, and he felt as sure as a man could well be that something was amiss. But how was he to help her? At any rate he was going to try.

The clocks in the neighbourhood were striking eleven next morning as he alighted from his hansom and approached the door of the studio. He rang the bell, but no answer rewarded him. He rang again, but with the same result.

Not being able to make any one hear, he returned to his cab and set off for the Warwick Road. Reaching the house, the number of which Katherine had given him, he ascended the steps and rang the bell. When the maid-servant answered his summons, he inquired for Miss Petrovitch.

"Miss Petrovitch?" said the girl, as if she were surprised. "She is not here, sir. She and Madame Bernstein left for Paris this morning."

CHAPTER VII

When Browne heard the maid's news, his heart sank like lead. He could scarcely believe his ill-fortune. Only a moment before he had been comforting himself with the thought that he would soon be standing face to face with Katherine, ready to ask her a question which should decide the happiness of his life. Now his world seemed suddenly to have turned as black as midnight. Why had she left England so suddenly? What had taken her away? Could it have been something in connection with that mysterious business of Madame Bernstein's of which he had heard so much of late? Then another idea struck him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was leaving that had occasioned her unhappiness on the previous afternoon. The maid who had opened the door to him, and whose information had caused him such disappointment, was a typical specimen of the London boarding-house servant, and yet there was sufficient of the woman left in her to enable her to see that her news had proved a crushing blow to the man standing before her.

"Can you tell me at what hour they left?" Browne inquired. "I was hoping to have seen Miss Petrovitch this morning."

"I can tell you what the time was exactly," the girl replied. "It was on the stroke of nine when they got into the cab."

"Are you quite certain upon that point?" he asked.

"Quite certain, sir," she answered. "I know it was nine o'clock, because I had just carried in the first floor's breakfast; and a precious noise, sir, he always makes if it is not on the table punctual to the minute. There were some letters for Madame Bernstein by the post, which the other girl took up to her bedroom. As soon as she read them she sent down for Mrs. Jimson and called for her bill. 'I leave for Paris in an hour's time, Mrs. Jimson,' says she, sort of short-like, for I heard her myself; 'so make me out my bill and let me have it quickly.'"

"And did Miss Petrovitch appear at all surprised or put out at having to leave London at such short notice?" Browne asked, not without a little trepidation.

"Well, sir, that was exactly what I was a-going to tell you," the girl replied, dropping her voice a little, and glancing back over her shoulder into the house, as if she were afraid of being overheard. "She did seem precious put out about it; at least so the other girl says. Jane tells me she feels certain Miss Petrovitch had been crying, her eyes were that red, and when she went into the room she and madame were at it hammer and tongs.

"I suppose they left no message for any one?" Browne inquired, refusing to comment on what the girl had just told him.

"Not as I know of, sir," the young woman replied. "But if you will just wait a minute I'll go in and ask Mrs. Jimson. She will be sure to know."

Browne contained his patience as best he could for some five or six minutes. Then the girl returned and shook her head.

"There's no message of any sort, sir," she said; "at least not as Mrs. Jimson knows of."

"Thank you," said Browne simply. "I am much obliged to you."

As he said it he slipped half a sovereign into the girl's hand. The bribe completed the effect the touch of romance, combined with his pleasing personality, to say nothing of his smart cab drawn up beside the pavement, had already produced. Not only would she have told him all she knew, but, had she dared, she would have gone so far as to have expressed her sympathy with him.

Browne was about to descend the steps, when another idea occurred to him, and he turned to the girl again.

"You do not happen to be aware of their address in Paris, I suppose?" he inquired. "I have a particular reason for asking the question."

"Hush, sir!" she whispered. "If you really want to know it, I believe I can find out for you. Madame Bernstein wrote it down for Mrs. Jimson, so that she could send on any letters that came for her. I know where Mrs. Jimson put the piece of paper, and if you'll just wait a minute longer, I'll see if I can find it for you and copy it out. I won't be a minute longer than I can help."

Feeling very much as if he were being guilty of a dishonourable action, Browne allowed her to depart upon her errand. This time she was somewhat longer away, but when she returned she carried, concealed in her hand, a small slip of paper. He took it from her, and, once more thanking her for her kindness, returned to his cab.

"Home, Williams," he cried to his coachman, "and as quickly as possible. I have no time to spare."

As the vehicle sped along in the direction of the High Street, Browne unfolded and glanced at the paper the girl had given him. Upon it, written in a clumsy hand, was the address he wanted, and which he would have fought the world to obtain.

"Madame Bernstein," so it ran, "35, Rue Jacquarie, Paris."

"Very good," said Browne to himself triumphantly. "Now I know where to find them. Let me see! They were to leave London in an hour from nine o'clock; that means that they started from Victoria and are travelling viâ Newhaven and Dieppe. Now, there's a train from Charing Cross, viâ Dover and Calais, at eleven. If I can catch that I shall be in Paris an hour and a half after them."

He consulted his watch anxiously, to find that he had barely an hour in which to pack his bag and to get to the station. However, if it could be done, he was determined to do it; accordingly he bade his man drive faster. Reaching Park Lane, he rang for his valet, and when that somewhat stolid individual put in an appearance, bade him pack a few necessaries and be ready to start for the Continent at once. Being a well-drilled servant, and accustomed, by long usage, to his master's rapid flittings from place to place, the man offered no comment, but merely saying, "Very good, sir," departed to carry out his instructions.

Two minutes to eleven found Browne standing upon the platform at Charing Cross Station. It was not until he was comfortably installed in the carriage and the train was rolling out of the station, that the full meaning of what he was doing struck him. Why was he leaving England? To follow this girl. And why? For one very good reason —because he loved her! But why should he have loved her, when, with his wealth, he could have married the daughter of almost any peer in England; when, had he so desired, he could have chosen his wife from among the most beautiful or most talented women in Europe? Katherine Petrovitch, attractive and charming as she was, was neither as beautiful, rich, or clever as a hundred women he had met. And yet she was the one in the world he desired for his wife.

So concerned was he about her that, when they reached Dover, his first thought was to examine the sea in order to convince himself that she had had a good crossing. He boarded the steamer, the lines were cast off, and presently the vessel's head was pointing for the Continent. Little by little the English coast dropped behind them and the shores of France loomed larger. Never before had the coast struck him as being so beautiful. He entered the train at Calais with a fresh satisfaction as he remembered that every revolution of the wheels was bringing him closer to the woman he loved. The lights were lit in the cafés and upon the boulevards, when he reached Paris, and as he drove through the crowded streets in the direction of the hotel he usually affected the city seemed all glitter, gaiety, and life.

Familiar as he was with the city, it seemed altogether different to him to-night. The loungers in the courtyard of the hotel, the bustling waiters, the very chambermaids, served to remind him that, while in the flesh he was still the same John Grantham Browne, in the spirit he was an altogether separate and distinct individual from the man they had previously known. On reaching his own room he opened the window, leant out, and looked upon Paris by night. The voice of the great city spoke to him, and greeted him as with the sweetest music. Once more he was sharing the same city with Katherine Petrovitch, breathing the same air, and hearing the same language.

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 institute 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 viâ the Rue Tronchet. Turning into the Rue St. Honoré, 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 passed 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 passed 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 passed 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'Opéra, 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 passed 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 constitution. 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 assured 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.