At the Sign of the Sword: A Story of Love and War in Belgium - William Le Queux

And so it happened that Edmond Valentin, accompanied by Aimée, resolved at last to escape to London, where the girl could rejoin her parents.

With a huge crowd of refugees of all classes, the pair, ever faithful to each other—yet, be it said, greatly to Edmond’s regret—crossed one grey wintry afternoon to Dover, where, on the pier, the pair woe met by the Baron and Baroness, and carried with delight to that haven of the stricken—that sanctuary of the war—London.

The gallant conduct of the Sous-officier of Belgian Chasseurs, in a shabby blue military great-coat, worn and torn, and with the right arm bandaged across his chest, had reached England through the Press long before. In the papers there had been brief accounts of his fearless penetration into the enemy’s lines, and the gallant rescue of the woman he so dearly loved. King Albert had bestowed upon him the Cross of the Order of Leopold, and his photograph—together with that of Aimée—had been published in many of the newspapers.

Little wonder was it, therefore, that a little over a month later—on that well-remembered day in November when the British monitors from the sea assisted the Belgians and our own troops in the splendid defence of the Straits of Dover—newspaper reporters and photographers stood so eagerly upon that long flight of stone steps which lead up to the entrance of St. Martin’s Church, in Trafalgar Square, where a wedding of Belgian refugees was to take place.

The happy couple emerged from the church at last man and wife, and Edmond Valentin, still in his shabby dark-blue great-coat, and with his arm bandaged, did not escape the ubiquitous photographers any more than did Aimée de Neuville—now little Madame Valentin.

But both were modest in the happy dénouement of the great human drama, preferring to remain blissful in each other’s love, rather than to court any further publicity.

True, most of the newspapers next day,—and especially the illustrated ones,—reported that the wedding had taken place, but there was only the vaguest hint of the real and actual romance which I have—perhaps somewhat indiscreetly—attempted to describe in the foregoing pages—the romance of those terribly dramatic happenings at the Sign of the Sword.

The End.