Do you know, Aimée, exclaimed her companion seriously at last, I have decided to return to my old regiment, and to act my part the part of a true Belgian. I can at once return as sous-officier.
What? gasped the girl in quick alarm. But, Edmond you you you might be wounded if war really broke out! You might even be killed! No! For my sake, dear, dont go, she implored, placing her trembling little hand upon his arm and looking up appealingly into his eyes.
War will be upon us, if not to-day, then to-morrow. My place is in the ranks of the defenders, he said firmly. I have no money-bags to protect, as your father the Baron has. My profession will be at an end with war, hence I have decided. I have made all arrangements for my friend Verbruggen to take my cases in the Courts.
And you will really rejoin the Chasseurs-à-pied? she asked anxiously.
I shall. It is only my duty, dearest. Against the great Germany our little Belgium will require every man who can hold a rifle, replied her lover. The German Kaiser means war and war means the shedding of blood in our land.
But think if you were killed, Edmond! she gasped, staring at him.
I should at least die knowing that we loved each other, darling, he answered, taking her hand tenderly in his own and raising it to his lips. You are mine, and I am yours; only death can part us.
He glanced up and down. They were alone in that narrow, leafy way, with the birds twittering gaily above them, and the hot sunshine filtering through the branches; for the charm of the Bois was its rural picturesqueness, near as it was to the centre of the gay, vivacious little capital.
His arm stole very slowly around her waist, and she fell back into his embrace in the supreme ecstasy of that moment.
Though the barrier between us the barrier of money is insurmountable, Aimée, I love you better ah! better than my own life, sweetheart. To-day, though the sun still shines over our dear Belgium, it is, alas! the darkest day of our history. The terror of the Uhlan is already over our land. Your father, the Baron, will, I know, endeavour to snatch you from me, and marry you to the man whom I have so just a cause to hate enemy as he is of my own race, my name, my country. But, darling, I refuse, in this hour of deadly peril, to remain inactive. I love you, and, my darling, I know that you love me. Our dear country is threatened by the invader, who intends to smash and to crush us, to sweep our smiling, peaceful land with fire and sword; to stamp out our national life, and to grind us beneath the millstones of a blasphemous autocracy. And, as an officer of the Belgian army, my place is with my regiment to defend our country; to defend our innocent women to defend you, my own beloved.
Tears welled in her great dark eyes as she listened to his words, and he bent until his lips pressed hers.
His argument was complete. How could she protest further? Her secret lover was a fine, manly man far more manly than any she had ever met in her own select circle of that vain bejewelled society, where mammon was god, and where finance daily juggled with the destiny of nations.
To rejoin his regiment was, after all, her lovers duty. She knew it in her innermost consciousness. Yes, he was right. Though a lieutenant, he could rejoin as sous-officier. The war-cloud, so black and lowering, must burst within a few hours.
As a true daughter of Belgium she was at heart a patriot, even though, in her own home, the only patriotism ever taught her had been the love of self-esteem.
He was silent, not daring to utter further word; and she, looking into his dark, thoughtful, serious eyes, in silence, wept.
Yet in the ears of both of them rang that single word of such awful and such fatal significance:
War! War! WAR!
Chapter Three.
The Hearts Desire
At ten oclock on the same evening the Baron Henri de Neuville sat smoking a cigar in a small, luxuriously furnished room in the great white mansion in the Avenue Louise.
A broad-shouldered, grey-haired, slightly bald man, whose heavy jaws were fringed by short grey side-whiskers, and whose deep-set eyes were rendered darker by the natural pallor of his complexion. His hair was well brushed to hide his baldness, and in his well-cut evening clothes he looked younger than he really was. He had been commanded to the Palace earlier in the evening, for the King had consulted him in connection with some secret financial transaction affecting the nation, and therefore at his throat he wore the ribbon and cross of the Order of Leopold.
With him sat his friend, Arnaud Rigaux, a dandified thin-faced man, a few years his junior, with black hair plastered down upon his head, a pair of narrow-set beady eyes, a countenance of distinctly Hebrew cast, and a small pointed black moustache, unmistakably dyed. The shrivelled thinness of his hands was certainly not in keeping with the artificial youth of his face, and, on second glance, the most casual observer would have realised that he was one of those men who, by reason of a fast life, have aged prematurely, and who endeavour to remain young, and believe themselves still attractive to the fair sex.
He had, in years past, been a rather handsome man. But the life he had led had left its mark indelibly upon him, for he looked what he was, a roué who had run the whole gamut of the gaieties of Europe, from the Casino at Aix to the Villa Regala at Bucharest, and from the haunts of the demi-monde on the Riviera to the night-cafés of Berlin and the cabarets of the Montmarte.
As he lounged back in the big, soft, saddle-bag chair, the fine diamond glistening in his shirt, he presented a picture of the affluent parvenu, that type of wealthy financier of Hebrew strain, which is so familiar the world over.
The Baron was certainly of a refined and gentlemanly type, though there was in his face that shrewd, hard expression which seems inseparable from the financial mind. Yet his companion was of an entirely different stamp coarse, unsympathetic, with sensuality stamped upon his loose lips.
He removed the cigar from his mouth, and lifting his narrow eyes to his companion, remarked:
I am relieved to hear your opinion, my dear Henri. It agrees entirely with mine. Though the Bourses show signs of panic, I cannot but think that war is impossible.
The Minister Orts was at the Palace, and I had a few words with him, the Baron said. They had, at the Ministry, a telegram from our Minister in London only an hour ago. War is not anticipated there.
Nor here only by the ignorant, laughed Rigaux. Germany cannot nay, she dare not attack Europe.
It is whispered that the King has appealed to King George of England to uphold our neutrality. But in one or two quarters I hear it alleged that the fixed purpose to provoke a general war has underlain Germanys policy for many years, and now, with Austria as her ally, she has wantonly flung down the gauntlet to all Europe.
I dont believe it at all, declared the other. The Kaiser cannot commit such an outrage on all justice and all public right. Our neutrality was guaranteed by Germany herself. How can she dishonour her own signature?
But Germany aspires to supremacy, we must not forget, my dear friend, and to supremacy as complete as that claimed by Napoleon. She intends that all the other Powers shall be her subordinate allies. She would drag them all in her wake.
Bah! England will not bargain away to Germany her obligations to us, depend upon it, was the others reply. The Kaiser fears the British fleet. He is not yet ready, my dear Baron. So let us dismiss the so-called peril, for it does not exist, I assure you. The Baron rose from his chair, and stepped out upon the long balcony into the close, breathless night.
Bah! England will not bargain away to Germany her obligations to us, depend upon it, was the others reply. The Kaiser fears the British fleet. He is not yet ready, my dear Baron. So let us dismiss the so-called peril, for it does not exist, I assure you. The Baron rose from his chair, and stepped out upon the long balcony into the close, breathless night.
A regiment of Lancers were clattering along the broad avenue, just distinguishable among the trees, and the people were cheering wildly as they passed.
War was in the air. Notwithstanding the assurances of his friend Rigaux, the Baron could not disguise from himself the serious apprehension that had so suddenly arisen in his mind. Hitherto, he had been loudest in his expressions that war would not be yet, but since he had been at the Palace, an hour ago, and seen the serious expression upon the faces of his sovereign, and of certain officials, he had become suspicious of the worst.
What if England defied this sabre-rattling of Germany, and declared war to protect Belgium? He pondered as he stood there, glancing down into the leafy avenue where the people were shouting, À bas les Allemands!
He had his back turned to his friend, who still sat smoking. Had he turned, he might, however, have seen something which would have aroused wonder within him, for while he stood there, looking down upon the straight, leafy way, bright under its lines of lamps, his friend, behind his back, had clenched his fists fiercely. Arnaud Rigauxs teeth were set, and upon his countenance was a fierce look of hatred of the man whom he was trying to lull into a false sense of security.
A distinctly evil expression played about the corners of his sensuous mouth, as his narrow-set eyes glinted with the fire of a detestation which, until that moment, he had so cleverly concealed.
Though posing as an intensely patriotic Belgian, he was, if the truth be told, one of the few men in Brussels who knew the German intentions, and who, for a fortnight past, had been fully prepared.
War must come, he was well aware. It had all been arranged two years ago, yet the Belgian Government, and even the Baron de Neuville, its chief financial adviser, had remained in utter ignorance. They had never suspected the Kaisers treachery.
Rigaux smiled as he reflected how cleverly the secret of it all had been kept. Great Britain must now certainly fall into the trap so cunningly prepared for her, and then Europe would, as the Kaiser intended, be drenched in blood.
In those moments, while the Baron stood outside, he reflected upon the private audience he had had with the Emperor at Potsdam nine months before, of the secret reports he had furnished regarding the financial situation of Belgium, and other matters, and the preparations for war in Luxembourg and along the frontier, which were revealed to him by a high official in the Wilhelmstrasse. He had returned from his business-visit to Berlin, and not a soul in Brussels had ever dreamed that he had been received by the Most Highest. The secret policy of the Kaiser was to court the good-will of certain financiers who, most of them, willingly became his agents and cats-paws, and kept the War Office in Berlin well informed of the trend of events. It was so in the case of the clever, wealthy, and unscrupulous Arnaud Rigaux.
The Baron turned, but in an instant the face of his friend reassumed its expression of easy-going carelessness.
This silly war-scare seems to please the people eh? he laughed aloud. Hark at them shouting! It is to be hoped they will not attack the German Legation, burn the German flag, or commit some ridiculous outrage of that sort.
Lets hope not, or it might be misconstrued into an act of war, the Baron agreed, as he stepped again into the small, cosy, but exquisitely furnished room. Probably the Garde Civile have taken every precaution to avoid demonstrations. Nevertheless, he added, I do not like the outlook at all, my dear Arnaud. I confess I do not like it at all.
Mon cher ami, surely you, of all men, are not being led away by this sensation in the newspapers! exclaimed his friend, pursing his thick lips. We both know the value to be placed upon messieurs les journalistes. We buy them all whenever we desire their favour do we not?
But the Baron cast himself into his chair and shook his head gravely, saying:
I fear, notwithstanding, that the outlook is very black for Belgium. War would mean ruin to us both. We have, both of us, large interests in France and Germany, he added, ignorant of the vile treachery of which his friend had been guilty. If war came in Europe, I should be ruined.
Exactly, responded the other. That is why, in such circumstances as these, a union of our houses would be so intensely desirable. Have you spoken to Mademoiselle Aimée again? he asked, regarding the Baron with those narrow, crafty eyes of his.
Yes, was the reply.
And what has Mademoiselle said?
Up to the present, sighed the Baron, she is still obdurate.
Because of that good-looking avocat eh? he retorted. Why do you allow her still to meet the fellow?
She does not meet him to my knowledge.
She does almost daily. I have set watch upon them. They met to-day in the Bois, at five oclock.
The Baron was again silent for a few moments. Then he said:
Valentin has, it seems, made quite a sensational success in the Affaire of the Rue du Trône. There is a long account in to-nights papers. Berton, the Minister of Justice, was speaking of it.
But surely you will not allow your daughter to marry a penniless lawyer? protested the financier. Think what you and I could do, if only we amalgamated upon fair and equivalent business lines. As you well know, I am extremely fond of Aimée.
You have spoken to her, she tells me.
I have. But, unfortunately, she treats me with a calm and utter indifference.
Perhaps she will, eventually, grow tired of Edmond Valentins attentions, her father suggested.
Never, growled Rigaux. I believe she loves the fellow. But if you were only firm, my dear friend, she would, in the end, consent to marry me.
I am firm.
Yet you allow them to meet daily!
How can I prevent it?
By sending her away say to England. I will go to England also.
My own opinion is that you would fare no better in England than here. Aimée is a girl of spirit. She may be led, but driven never, her father declared emphatically.
But cannot you compel her to give up this man? urged Rigaux eagerly.
Have I not tried, for weeks and weeks? Personally, my friend, I dont think you dance attendance sufficiently upon her, if you really mean to win her. She has been spoiled ever since a child, and likes lots of attention.
Arnaud Rigauxs brows narrowed slightly, for he at once realised that what the Baron said was the truth. He had certainly been deficient in his amorous advances, for, truth to tell, he had become so utterly blasé that few women nowadays attracted him.
Yes, he sighed grossly. Perhaps you are right, Baron. Is she at home this evening?
Shes alone in the petit salon, reading, I believe. My wife is out at dinner with the wife of the Roumanian Minister.
Then, if there is nothing else for us to discuss, I will go down and spend an hour with her eh?
Très bien, acceded the Baron, while Rigaux, casting away his cigar, settled his cravat before a big mirror at the end of the room, smoothed his hair with both his hands, and left.