One of the most pleasant thoroughfares in Brussels is perhaps that broad
boulevard, lying on the La Cambre side, between the Fontaine Debroeckere
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 Valerie 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 cochere_, 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 facade
was more imposing than that of its neighbours.
Meanwhile, seated on a low gypsy chair, in a small but elegant room,
Valerie was deciphering a long letter which had been just handed to her
by the man who sat near, Victor Berard.
"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.