The Launching of Roger Brook (66 page)

He felt that de la Tour d’Auvergne had been right in his contention that it would be morning before warrants were issued for their arrest, and he wondered if he dared risk attempting to see Athénaïs. The urge to give her what consolation he could, and the longing to hold her in his arms again, were almost overwhelming, but on several counts he decided most reluctantly against it.

In such foreboding circumstances a final meeting, far from consoling Athénaïs, could only harrow her still further; and his own hope of safety lay in reaching one of the Channel ports before his description could be circulated in them, and all captains sailing for England instructed to detain him. To reach Athénaïs at all he would have to wait until the whole household was asleep, then make his way like a burglar to her bedroom. If he was discovered there her father might well kill her, and, even if he got away again undetected, to give several precious hours to such a project would almost certainly result in his own capture and death.

The Marquis’s voice had risen and he was now speaking much more rapidly. Roger had never before seen him display such passion and forcefulness. His blue eyes flashing he leaned towards the Archbishop and hammered home his thesis. France was on the verge of irretrievable ruin and open anarchy. Only one thing could save the monarchy, the Church and the nobility. The people’s thoughts must be diverted from the hopeless tangle of internal affairs to sudden, unexpected and glorious triumphs beyond the frontiers. The lightning subjugation of the United Provinces would fill France’s empty coffers, and give her a breathing space to reorganise. Before the nation had time to consider internal grievances again the Dutch ports could be made
the bases of a French Armada and the people worked up to a fever pitch of excitement at the prospect of fresh conquests. By next summer the invasion could be launched and the final blow against England struck. The autumn of ’eighty-eight would see the power of perfidious Albion for ever broken and France rich, prosperous, unchallengeable, the Mistress of the Empire of the World.

The Archbishop’s face remained calm and impassive. He continued to toy with his heavy jewelled cross and neither by word nor gesture gave the faintest indication as to if the Marquis’s impassioned harangue had made the least impression on him. Yet everyone in the room knew that he was a shallow, vain and intensely ambitious man. M. de Rochambeau was offering him a way of escape from innumerable difficulties with which it was far beyond his very limited capacities to deal. And, far more; for if this audacious and cunningly conceived plan succeeded he would go down to history as greater than Rosney, greater than Mazarin, greater than Colbert, greater even than Richelieu. He would be the most powerful Prime Minister that France had ever known and, if he wished, there would then be few obstacles to his ending his days upon the Papal throne. Could any vain, ambitious prelate possibly resist such a temptation?

As the Marquis ceased speaking there fell a deathly silence in the room. No one moved a muscle and all eyes were riveted with fascinated expectation on the Archbishop’s pale face. Slowly he turned to M. de Rochambeau, and said:

‘Monsieur le Marquis, you are right. Only a bold course can now save France from hideous disaster. You have won me to your plan and I congratulate you upon it. I give my authority for M. de Montmorin to write a letter in the terms you suggest to the Dutch Republican leaders, pledging them the armed support of France in their rising against the Stadtholder.’

Silence fell again for a second. The Marquis was pale as a ghost but his eyes flashed with triumph. Suddenly the others gave vent to their feelings. As the Archbishop stood up to leave the table they broke into a noisy uproar of jubilant congratulation. Fawning upon him and flattering him as the greatest statesman that France had known for a
dozen generations they accompanied him downstairs, and for some ten minutes Roger was left alone.

Since he knew that the Marquis and some of the others would return, as soon as they had seen the Archbishop to his coach, he remained where he was, standing by his table, now the prey of almost overwhelming emotions.

The treacherous subjugation of the United Provinces by a
coup d’état
on the 10th of September—the first and all-important step in the plot that must lead to the destruction of Britain—was now inevitable, except for one slender possibility; and he alone, if fortune favoured him, had the power to give his country that chance. He was still convinced that if France was faced with immediate war with England and Prussia she would not dare to implement her promise to the Dutch Republicans. If the British Cabinet had news of what was afoot they still might hesitate to take the plunge and issue an instant ultimatum. If they did hesitate they would be lost. But before they even had a chance to take a decision they must be placed in full possession of the facts, and no one but himself was in a position to carry these facts across the Channel. It was now close on midnight of the 28th-29th August, so there were only twelve clear days before the mine was to be sprung. The Cabinet would need at least six days if effective counter-measures were to be taken to prevent the
coup
. That meant that he had six days in which to get to London—and by morning half the police in France would be hunting him for murder.

He was still immersed in the terrible responsibility that had been thrust upon him when M. de Rochambeau came back into the room, accompanied by Messieurs de Montmorin and de Rayneval.

‘Now for the letter!’ said the Marquis eagerly. ‘While we take care of that you, de Rayneval, had best order your baggage to be carried downstairs and get into your travelling things. Not a moment must be lost in transmitting the despatch; and, lest the Archbishop weaken overnight, you must be well on your way to the Hague by morning. Then it will be too late for any last moment shilly-shallying to rob us of our triumph.’

‘You are right, Marquis!’ cried de Rayneval. ‘I’ll make my preparations with all speed and rejoin you here the instant I am done,’ and he hurried from the room.

The Marquis glanced at Roger. ‘You have parchment
there? Take down my words in a clear hand. Address the letter to His Excellency. Mynheer van Berkel, Pensionary of Amsterdam; for submission to Their High Mightinesses the States-General of the United Provinces, and all whom it may concern.’

Roger tried his quill and wrote the superscription, then he took down the despatch as the Marquis dictated it. The document was short and to the point; a clear and unequivocal promise of armed support by France should this prove necessary for the establishment and maintenance of a new Dutch Republican Government in which for the future all sovereign powers of the United Provinces were to be vested.

When they had done the Comte de Montmorin signed the letter and produced a big seal from a satin-lined box that he had brought with him. Roger fetched wax from his office and the document was duly sealed with the impress of the Foreign Minister to His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVI of France.

It was now close on midnight. M. de Montmorin pleaded fatigue and, having congratulated the Marquis once more, took his departure, leaving M. de Rochambeau and Roger alone together.

For all his iron self-discipline the Marquis could hardly contain his excitement, while he waited for M. de Rayneval to return and collect the letter. Pacing up and down with his hands clasped behind his back he muttered to Roger:

‘This is a great night, Breuc, a great night! You have been privileged to witness an historic occasion. For more than twelve months I have laboured tirelessly, and now, on the delivery of this despatch, I shall begin to reap my reward. This time next year you will see the real fruits of my work for France. ’Tis then that we shall witness the downfall of the avaricious, unscrupulous English. ’Tis then that their accursed island will at last be overwhelmed, and the
Fleur-de-Lys
of France fly unchallenged on every sea.’

For a moment the veil of the Marquis’s aloof passivity was lifted and Roger could see the hatred and ambition seething in his brain. With a flash of intuition he realised that the vain, empty Archbishop must fall like corn before the scythe of the reaper in front of this imperialistic juggernaut. It was not Loménie de Brienne who, if this conspiracy of conquest succeeded, would be the all-powerful Prime
Minister of a Europe under the heel of France, or de Breteuil, or de Castries, or de Polignac; it would be the Marechal Duc de Rochambeau.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside in the office. Both Roger and the Marquis turned towards the door. It was flung violently open and Count Lucien staggered in.

As his glance fell on Roger he let out a yell of mingled surprise and rage.

‘
Mort du diable
! To find you here was beyond my wildest hopes! But for this final audacity you’ll pay with your neck!’

Swinging round on his father, he shouted: ‘Do’st know the snake that thou hast harboured here? He has wounded me and killed de Caylus this very night! Aye, and the cur has brought indelible shame upon our house. He has seduced Athénaïs!’

Roger overturned the small table behind which he stood and jumped for the door. But it was too late. Attracted by Count Lucien’s shouts the two footmen had come running upstairs; with them, in the office, were Paintendre and the returning M. de Rayneval. The way was blocked and Roger was unarmed. He knew that he was trapped.

For a second all seven men remained absolutely motionless, as though posed in some dramatic
tableaux vivant
, three on the inner side of the open doorway and four on the other. Suddenly they came to life.

‘Seize him!’ cried Count Lucien to the footmen. ‘Seize him, and call the Archers of the Guard!’

The footmen were just behind M. de Rayneval. As they pushed past him to obey, Roger acted. Thrusting Count Lucien aside with one hand he slammed the door to with the other, locked it and pulled the key out. Turning his back to the door, he faced father and son.

The young Count gave a shout: ‘Break down the door! Break down the door!’ And those outside began to hammer upon it.

The Marquis’s face was now chalk-white. ‘It cannot be true,’ he gasped. ‘’Tis like a nightmare! I’ll not believe it!’

Roger’s shove had sent Count Lucien reeling against a gilded console table fixed to the wall. The blood was seeping through a bandage on his thigh, and with one foot slightly raised he clung to the table for support.

‘You’ll have ample proof soon enough, Monsieur,’ he cried. ‘My own blood is first testimony to what I say, and de Caylus’s servants will have carried the story of the fight to a hundred ears by now.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Roger snapped. ‘Had you not snatched off my mask and given free rein to your imbecile tongue no one would ever have known who it was that challenged de Caylus to fight, or why.’

‘Mask! Challenge!’ exclaimed the Marquis. ‘What means all this? For God’s sake tell me plainly what has occurred.’

‘De Caylus and myself were returning from Versailles to his house in the Bois de Meudon,’ said Count Lucien hurriedly. ‘Our coach was held up by this churl and some friends of his. They wounded one of the servants, then attacked us, forcing us to fight.’

‘You cowardly assassin! Why not stick to the truth?’ Roger cried, trembling with rage. ‘My friends accompanied me only to see fair play. Since de Caylus refused the civil challenge that I sent I was forced to taunt him to a fight; but when we did fight it was man to man; until you sneaked up on me from the rear and tried to run me through the back. Yet even then I bested both of you single-handed and, having marked you well, slew him in fair fight.’

The Marquis stared at him with unbelieving eyes. ‘You killed de Caylus in single combat? I’ll not believe it! He was one of the finest swordsmen in all France.’

Roger shrugged. ‘Disbelieve it then, if you wish. Those who saw it will vouch for what I say.’

To make themselves heard they now had to shout, as the people outside had fetched implements and were endeavouring to break down the door; but it was of heavy oak with a good stout lock and at present only quivered at the blows that rained upon it.

‘What quarrel had you with de Caylus?’ the Marquis
asked suddenly, still seeking to grasp the rights of this terrible affair.

Lucien replied for Roger with his accustomed venom. ‘He killed the Count to prevent his wedding Athénaïs. Did I not tell you, Monsieur, that this viper has become her lover?. Had I not unmasked him he would have achieved his end of remaining on here and keeping her for his mistress.’

‘’Tis a lie!’ roared Roger. ‘I’ll not deny that I love Athénaïs, but I would have been happy to see her wed to any decent man.’

The Marquis passed a hand across his eyes. ‘You!’ he stammered. ‘You, my daughter’s lover.
Mort Dieu
! The shame of it will kill me!’

The hammering upon the door forced Roger to raise his voice still higher, as he cried: ‘I said that I loved her, not that I was her lover; and there is a vast difference in the terms.’

‘Who would believe you?’ sneered the Count. ‘Not I, for one.’

‘Thou art right!’ moaned the Marquis. ‘
Marie, Mère de Jesu
! What have I done to deserve this? That my wretch of a daughter should give herself to the embraces of one little better than a serf!’

‘Damn you!’ snarled Roger, with a sudden flash of vindictiveness. ‘’Tis good, for once, to see your arrogance humbled.’

Lucien leaned forward. ‘’Twas but another lie then, about your being of noble birth?’

The door was creaking now. Someone had found a crowbar and was trying to lever it from its sockets. Roger knew that there was no time to spare for arguments and flung back: ‘Believe what you like, I care not,’ and took a step towards the long line of windows.

But the Marquis clutched at this straw which might salve his injured pride. Side-stepping to bar Roger’s path, he cried: ‘What is this story? Since you killed de Caylus you must be a remarkably fine swordsman. Have you the right to bear arms?’

Roger ignored the question and shouted: ‘Stand from my path, or ‘twill be the worse for you.’