One of the most pleasant thoroughfares in Brussels is perhaps that broad boulevard, lying on the La Cambre side, between the Fontaine Debroeckère and the Porte de Hal. The Boulevard de Waterloo is scarcely as fashionable as the Bontanique or the Regent, but it certainly possesses another and greater charm, inasmuch as the trees are more abundant, and, being older than those in the other boulevards, their branches meet overhead, forming long avenues of dark foliage which in summer constitute a cool and pleasant promenade.
Hugh Trethowen, dressed with evident care, had strolled from his hotel in the Place Royale one afternoon, three days later, and, walking up the Rue de Namur, had turned into this leafy resort of idlers.
Under a clear blue sky the sun shone upon the fresh green of the spring foliage, lighting up the usually sombre pathways with a shimmering golden light, and presenting the boulevard at its best, with its crowds of flaneurs strolling under the old elms, or seated enjoying the exhilarating air.
But by Hugh the picturesqueness of the scene was unappreciated. He was too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the beauty or charms of his surroundings; he was only bent on finding the house Valérie had given as her address. Crossing the boulevard without scarcely giving it a glance, he found himself before a long row of tall houses which line the left side, and constitute the Avenue de la Toison d’Or. Their dead white fronts were the reverse of artistic, although their general character spoke of stability and wealth, for the majority were of almost stereotyped exactness, each with its wide porte cochère, its enormous door, its three tall drawing-room windows with white jalousies thrown back, and its four storeys above.
With little difficulty Hugh discovered that the house he was in search of was situated at the corner of the Place Louise, and that its façade was more imposing than that of its neighbours.
Meanwhile, seated on a low gypsy chair, in a small but elegant room, Valérie was deciphering a long letter which had been just handed to her by the man who sat near, Victor Bérard.
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked the latter, twirling the needle-like points of his moustache, as she folded the paper slowly and replaced it in the envelope.
“It only shows how very near he was to bungling—the idiot! If he had, well—the results would have been too dreadful to think of.”
“Matters are progressing as well as can be wished, and the disappearance has been accomplished excellently, with the exception of that one hitch—”
“Which might have sent us both to a very unfashionable lodging,” she interrupted.