“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.”