At the Sign of the Sword: A Story of Love and War in Belgium

“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 other’s 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 Rigaux’s 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 Kaiser’s 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.”

“Let’s 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 o’clock.”

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-night’s 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 Valentin’s 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 don’t 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 Rigaux’s 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?”

“She’s 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.

Passing down the softly carpeted corridor he paused before a door, and opening it entered, to find himself in a good-sized salon carpeted in Saxe blue, with white enamelled walls and gilt furniture of the style of Louis Quatorze. Over the elegant apartment was suffused a soft light, the source of which was cunningly concealed behind the wide cornice running round the walls, the electric glow being thrown down by the white ceiling itself.

Upon a side-table stood a great silver bowl of La France roses, which filled the room with their fragrance, and near it, in a comfortable chaise-longue, reclined Aimée, looking sweet and dainty in a soft, filmy evening-gown of palest carnation pink.

She looked up from her book, startled, as the door opened, and then, recognising her visitor, rose, rather stiffly, to greet him.

“What, all alone, my dear Mademoiselle?” exclaimed Rigaux, as though in surprise, as he bowed over her hand. “I have been chatting with the Baron, but I expected to find Madame here. Well, and what do you think of all this very alarming news – eh?”

“Awful – is it not?” the girl replied, inviting him to a chair.

“The Baron and I have just been discussing it, and we are of opinion that there will be no war. I notice, however, in the papers to-night, a report of Monsieur Valentin’s great success in the Affaire of the Rue du Trône. I must congratulate him – and yourself.”

The girl blushed slightly. It was the first time this man, whom she so heartily hated, had ever mentioned her lover. Indeed, she was not, until that moment, quite certain whether he was aware of her secret – whether the Baron had told him.