“Really, Edmond, I don’t see what there is to fear. I know you have enemies, and further, that my father does not view you in exactly a friendly spirit, simply because you are not rich, like Arnaud—”
“Arnaud Rigaux!” Interrupted Edmond angrily. “I hate to hear the very name of the fellow! Your father, the Baron, wishes you to marry him, in order to cement the two greatest financial houses in Belgium—that of Neuville Frères and the Banque de Tervueren. Besides, he must be at least thirty years your senior, Aimée.”
“This is really unkind of you, Edmond,” exclaimed the girl in reproach, withdrawing her hand. “I came to meet you, so that we might spend a pleasant day in the country. Surely you believe that I love you, and that being so, how could I possibly consent to marry Monsieur Rigaux?”
“But I am only a mere obscure Brussels lawyer, Aimée,” he said. “How can I ever hope to marry you?”
The girl did not reply. Her heart was too full for mere words. They were alone upon that shady terrasse, with the great river swirling and rippling past them, while at the moment the quiet was broken by the sweet carillon of old church bells somewhere, chiming the hour of noon.
“I know, my darling,” he said in a low voice, in English, so that none should overhear and understand, as he looked at her across the table, “that your father and his friends hold the money-strings of our little nation. They reckon the world by its millions of francs, and the finances of Belgium are in their hands. He will make the most strenuous effort to force you to marry Rigaux, and so strengthen the position of both houses.”
“I will never marry the man—never!” Aimée de Neuville declared emphatically in good English. “I hate him!”
“You swear that?” he demanded quickly, a fierce light suddenly in his eyes.
“I do, Edmond.”
“Ah?” he sighed in deep relief. “Then I am satisfied. Let us discuss the subject no further.”