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William Le Queux
At the Sign of the Sword
A Story of Love and War in Belgium
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066157012
Table of Contents
"A Story of Love and War in Belgium"
William Le Queux
"At the Sign of the Sword"
"A Story of Love and War in Belgium"
Chapter One.
The Waters of the Meuse.
Warm, brilliant, and cloudless was the July noon.
Beneath the summer sun the broad, shallow waters of the Meuse sparkled as they rippled swiftly onward through the deep, winding valley of grey rocks and cool woods on their way from the mountains of Lorraine, through peaceful, prosperous Belgium, towards the sea.
That quiet, smiling land of the Ardennes was, in July in the year of grace 1914, surely one of the most romantic in all Europe—a green, peaceful land, undisturbed by modern progress; a land where the peasantry were still both honest and simple, retaining many of their primitive customs; a land where the herdsmen still called home the cattle by the blast of the horn as they had done for past centuries, where the feudal castles studding the country—mostly now in ruins—were once the abodes of robber-knights.
In that long, deep green valley, which wound from Namur up past Dinant to the French frontier at Givet, the people had advanced but little. Legend and history, poetry and fiction, provoked an interesting reminiscence at almost every turn, for it was, indeed, a land that fascinated those used to the mad hurry of our modern money-making life.
Not far from quaint, old-world Dinant, with its church with the slate-covered, bulgy spire nestling beneath its fortress-crowned rock, its narrow cobbled streets, and its picturesque little Place, lay the pretty riverside village of Anseremme, the favourite resort of artists, being situated at the junction of the Lesse—one of the loveliest of rivers—with the Meuse.
Seated at a shaded table eating their déjeuner, upon the rose-embowered terrasse of the unpretending little Hôtel Beau Séjour, which ran beside the rippling Meuse, sat a young man with a girl.
That the pair had met clandestinely was apparent to the white-aproned patron—who also acted as chef—from the fact that the young man had arrived on foot with rather dusty boots an hour before, had seated himself, ordered an apéritif and idled somewhat impatiently over the Indépendance Belge, until, from the direction of Givet, a fine grey car, sweeping along the road and raising a cloud of dust, suddenly pulled up before the hotel. From it a well-dressed young girl had alighted, and as she passed on to the terrasse, the young man had sprang up, uttered a loud cry of welcome, and bent over her hand.
Meanwhile, the chauffeur had discreetly moved on to the Hôtel de la Meuse, where he apparently intended to get his luncheon.
The young girl was distinctly handsome, as she sat leaning her elbows upon the table, gazing into her companion’s eyes, and bending forward to listen to the low words he was uttering. She was little more than twenty, with dark hair, regular, well-chiselled features; a small, pretty mouth, which puckered when she smiled; soft, delicate cheeks, and a pair of those great, dark-brown liquid eyes, which are so characteristically Belgian. Her dark-blue serge gown was a model of tailored neatness, while her little, close-fitting hat, in black straw, suited admirably a delicate, refined face, about which there could be no two opinions.
The poise of her head, the white, delicate throat, discreetly open, and upon which hung a beautiful diamond and pearl pendant; the smallness of her white, ungloved hands, and the daintiness of her grey suede shoes and silk stockings to match, all combined to produce a chic which was that of one living in a smart circle of the haut monde.
Both speech and gesture betrayed an education in France, for her accent was not of the Bruxellois but, like her graceful bearing, that