Although one of the most engaging little corners of Europe is assuredly the well-wooded, umbrageous dell in which nestles pleasantly the antique and old-fashioned watering-place, yet it cannot be denied that Spa itself has lost much of the gaiety and flaring splendour which characterised it in the wild gaming days of the past. In the Salle Levoz, where the gilding is faded and the hangings ragged, lords, dukes, and seigneurs of Louis XIV’s time, junketed, gave their fêtes, and danced minuets; while in the disused Vauxhall the older glories of balls, ridottos, and gambling went on night after night during the last century. But nowadays Monte Carlo attracts the knight of industry and the systematic gambler. Nevertheless, Spa remains pleasant and pastoral, notwithstanding the existence of survivals that speak mutely of its departed grandeur.
It is essentially picturesque, with its miniature Place, its imposing Pouhon, or “pump room,” its gay Casino, its luxurious Etablissement, its glaring Hôtel de Flandre, its “Orange,” and other pleasant houses of entertainment. Close by are the charming promenades under thickly planted rows of trees, quaintly termed the “Seven-o’clock” and “Four-o’clock” walks. Here crowds of visitors languidly wander, sit under the trees, or halt in groups listening to the music from the bands in the kiosks.
Spa is still popular with all classes of visitors, from the English nobility to the shopkeeping element of Louvain, Brussels, and other contiguous towns; and the administration of the Casino appear untiring in their efforts to provide them with amusement in the form of fêtes, dramatic performances, concerts, balls, and other means of enjoyment and dissipation.
It was at one of the latter entertainments that Valérie and Hugh were amusing themselves, she having introduced him to Adolphe Chavoix.
When the dance concluded they strolled together through the wide corridor hung with pictures, crossed the reading-room, and walked out upon the balcony overlooking the Place Pierre-le-Grand, where they found the pseudo-Comte Chaulin-Servinière leaning upon the balustrade, smoking.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, as they advanced, “you, too, are tired of that close atmosphere. Faugh! I found it stifling.”
“You don’t dance, M’sieur le Comte, and therefore can’t enjoy it,” replied Valérie mischievously.
“Well, well, perhaps that’s so,” he replied. “But, by the way,” he continued, turning to Hugh, “why don’t you try your luck at the tables?”
“Oh yes, Hugh,” said Valérie, as if suddenly struck by the excellence of the suggestion; “let’s have a few games. It would be a pleasant change. Shall we?”
“I’ve no objection,” Trethowen answered.