Later that day, after dining in the restaurant, she put Ignatia to bed and sat with her till nine o’clock, when, leaving her asleep, she put on a jacket, hat, and thick veil—the one she had worn when she escaped from the palace—and locking the door, went out.
In the Rue St. Lazare she entered a cab and drove across the Pont des Arts, alighting at the corner of the Rue de Seine, that long, straight thoroughfare that leads up to the Arcade of the Luxembourg, and walked along on the left-hand side in search of the Café Vachette.
At that hour the street was almost deserted, for the night was chilly, with a boisterous wind, and the small tables outside the several uninviting cafés and brasseries were mostly deserted. Suddenly, however, as she approached a dingy little place where four tables stood out upon the pavement, two on either side of the doorway, a man’s figure rose, and with hat in hand, came forward to meet her.
She saw that it was Bourne, and with scarcely a word, allowed herself to be conducted to the table where an elderly, grey-haired man had risen to meet her.
“This is Mr Redmayne,” explained Bourne, “if I may be permitted to present him to you.”
The Princess smiled behind her veil, and extended her hand. She recognised him in an instant as the gallant old gentleman in the bright red cravat, who, on pretence of assisting her to alight, had made off with her bag.
She, an Imperial Archduchess, seated herself there between the pair of thieves.