It was a fine building, in which everything was done in the most sumptuous3 and luxurious4 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 luring5 him on to what was to be the most momentous6 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 meditative7 fashion of a man, who has dined well and feels disinclined for much exertion8, was no less a person than Maas.
“Mon cher ami,” he cried, springing to his feet and holding out his hand, “this is a delightful9 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 veins10, which I am discourteous11 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 credence13 to such a story.”
“Exactly what I told him,” said Maas, with his usual imperturbability14. “I said that, at his age, he should know better than to believe every silly rumour15 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 sardonically16, and immediately changed the conversation by inquiring what Browne intended doing that night.
“Going home to bed,” said Browne promptly17. “I have had a long day’s travelling, and I’ve a lot to do tomorrow. 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 superfluous18.”
“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 Vend19?me. 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 bent20 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 proceedings21, 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 god 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 destined22 to prove a restless one. Whether it was the journey or his visit to the Rue12 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 glass of cold water, tried to picture sheep jumping over a hedge; but in vain. Do what he would, the drowsy23 god would not listen to his appeal. Indeed, the first beams of the morning sun were stealing into his room before his eyelids24 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 intercepting25 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 fatigue26 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 astonishment27, however, hers was infinitely28 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 standing29 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 impending30 calamity31, 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 spoke32.
“May we not go into the Gardens?” he asked a little nervously33. “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 ?neas bearing Anchises through the flames of Troy, they entered one of the small groves34 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 nether35 regions before he would let her get an inkling of his embarrassment36. 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 chubby37, 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 plunge38. “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 lodgings39 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 simplicity40 that could scarcely have failed to entrap41 him.
“The eleven o’clock express from Charing42 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 memorable43 morning, as if two emotions, pride and love, were struggling in her breast for the mastery.
“Will you not forgive me?” he asked, more humbly44 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 consternation45.
“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 upwards46 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-room47 a note, written on pale-pink paper and so highly scented48 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 tomorrow (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 concierge49 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 theatrical50 as her usual behaviour, “this is most kind of you to come to see me so promptly. I know that I am trespassing51 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.
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1
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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9
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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10
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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discourteous
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| adj.不恭的，不敬的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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imperturbability
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| n.冷静；沉着 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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20
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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42
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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43
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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45
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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46
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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47
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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48
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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49
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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50
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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51
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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