The Launching of Roger Brook (62 page)

Pressed by the others for an early decision, and now seized with the urgency of the matter himself, he proposed that another meeting should be held the following night at ten o’clock, and promised to bring the Archbishop with him to attend it.

When they had gone Roger was left with his brain in a whirl. During a single conference every theory he had held for the past twelve months on French foreign policy had been smashed to atoms. Nothing was certain yet. Everything still hung on whether the Archbishop would fall a victim to this wave of war fever, on the following night. But if he did it now seemed that war was inevitable; and the French nobles who had gathered there planned a new type of war—a lightning war, unannounced by any ultimatum. Britain and Prussia would be caught off their guard and, before they had time to act, the Dutch ports and strong places would all have been taken by the enemy from within.

Roger knew that the time had now arrived, which had already been envisaged by cleverer people than himself, when no penned account of the situation as he saw it would serve to furnish those who were responsible for his country’s safety with a full picture of the enemy’s intentions. He must go home and report in person; in order that, in addition to giving his own version of the crisis, he might be questioned and knowledge which he possessed be extracted from him, on points that he might consider of little moment but those who had a broader vision of affairs might consider vital.

On thinking matters over further he realised that if the Archbishop said ‘No’ on the following night there would be no point in hastening to London, since the situation would remain, for the time being at least, unaltered. On the other hand, if he said ‘Yes’ the news must be carried with the utmost speed to Downing Street. Therefore it was imperative that he should be present at the conference that had been arranged to take place an hour or so after the time fixed for his duel.

For a while he even considered if he was not called upon to abandon the duel; but that he could not bring himself to
do. He squared his conscience by sitting down and writing a letter to Mr. Gilbert Maxwell in which he divulged the Marquis’s whole plot, and added that while no definite decision had been taken as yet, he felt that every possible precautionary measure against the French seizing the United Provinces by surprise should be adopted forthwith.

Another point that exercised him greatly was how, should he emerge successfully from his duel, and the need arose, could he suddenly disappear without leading the de Rochambeau household to suspect that his flight had some connection with the killing of de Caylus.

After deep thought he decided that the best measure would be to give out that he had just heard that his mother was dangerously ill, and that he had decided to leave on the Tuesday morning for Strasbourg. Athénaïs and de Périgord were still the only people who knew that he was an Englishman, and neither of them could possibly connect his departure with the reason that would lay behind it. M. de la Tour d’Auvergne knew only that he was of gentle birth, and again, knew nothing of what had passed at the recent conference. M. de Rochambeau still believed him to be of German extraction but a loyal Frenchman. He could not refuse to let him go to his mother’s death-bed and would have no reason to connect his request for immediate leave of absence with de Caylus’s death.

If, after all, on the Monday night the Archbishop of Toulouse vetoed M. de Rochambeau’s plan, Roger saw that he could always let himself out from having to leave Paris precipitately by saying that he had thought better of it, and had decided to remain until he heard further news of his mother’s condition.

On the Monday morning he went to see de la Tour d’Auvergne, and told his story. He also gave him the letter for Mr. Gilbert Maxwell, but in a double envelope concealing its address, and with instructions that the outer one was only to be opened and the inner dispatched in the event of his death.

He hated having to deceive this honest and upright friend, and had already felt many qualms about leaving him to suppose that, as M. de Rochambeau’s secretary, he had never ventured to express to Athénaïs the love he felt for her or given him any indication that she returned that love with equal fervour. But, in the latter case, Athénaïs’s
honour was concerned and, in the former, Roger felt that he was serving the true interests of France as much as of Britain by taking such steps as he could to prevent a war breaking out.

When he got back to the Hôtel he told both Paintendre and Monsieur Roland his story about his mother being seriously ill and, by good luck, he ran into Madame Marie-Angé on the first landing so he told her too, feeling confident that by this channel the story would reach Athénaïs.

That afternoon the Marquis went out, and did not require his services; so he went up to his room and, after a little, slept. At six o’clock, having washed and tidied himself as carefully as though he was going to be presented to the King, he took his sword from its place on the wall. Then, very slowly but resolutely, he walked downstairs; conscious with every step he took that it now lay on the knees of the gods, as to if he would ever walk down a flight of stairs again.

Roger found de la Tour d’Auvergne waiting for him in the Rue de Richelieu. They greeted one another gravely but both endeavoured to act as if their meeting was occasioned only by an arrangement to ride out together to sup with some mutual friend in the suburbs. As they turned their horses into the
Rue des Petits Champs
the Vicomte remarked casually that they were in luck to have such a pleasant evening, and Roger replied that he hoped the dry spell would continue.

They had some eight miles to go, but ample time before them, so they walked their horses a good part of the way only cantering now and again when they reached the grassy glades of the Bois de Boulogne. Having crossed the river at St Cloud they turned south towards Sevres and, as they approached the village, Roger took the opportunity to
refer again to his fiction about his mother’s illness.

‘I am still somewhat undecided,’ he said, ‘whether to leave Paris tomorrow morning or wait until I receive further news of my mother. On re-reading her letter I think that I at first alarmed myself overmuch; yet I would never forgive myself if she died without my having received her blessing.’

‘In your place I should decide nothing until you have slept upon it,’ replied the Vicomte. ‘Your mind will be clearer after tonight’s business is settled.’

Roger’s nerves were very taut, and he repressed an hysterical impulse to laugh at his friend’s apt choice of expression. The Vicomte referred, of course, to the duel, but ‘tonight’s business’ applied even better to the conference that M. de Rochambeau was to hold at ten o’clock; and whether Roger, if he was still alive, stayed on in Paris or left next day as soon as he had made his excuses to the Marquis, depended on the all important decision that the Archbishop of Toulouse would be called upon to take that night. However, the Vicomte’s advice was on the exact lines that Roger had hoped he would offer, so he accepted it readily.

Half a mile south of Sevres, on the northern outskirts of Bois de Meudon, they came upon the Abbé’s coach, drawn up by the side of the road. As they approached it Roger put on his mask, so that the coachman should not afterwards be able to identify him; then, when they were within a hundred yards, they reined in; the Vicomte took Roger’s horse, and he went forward on foot to greet de Périgord.

On reaching the coach, Roger saw that the Abbé was not alone; a short, fat man with a thick bandage over his eyes was leaning back beside him. The Abbé put his finger to his lips to enjoin silence, then got put and, taking Roger’s arm, limped along with him, back towards the Vicomte.

‘I see you have, after all, brought a friend,’ remarked de Périgord, as soon as they were out of earshot of the coach.

‘’Tis M. de la Tour d’Auvergne,’ Roger replied. ‘When I told him what was toward he insisted on accompanying me, to give his assistance should any unforeseen circumstance arise. But I see that you, too, are accompanied.’

The Abbé nodded. ‘My companion is a doctor. His presence will not make it any less a matter of murder, if you kill de Caylus, but ‘twill at least give the meeting more
the appearance of an affair of honour, and less that of a ruffianly attack. I have also brought with me two duelling swords from which M. le Comte can choose his length, in the event of his having only a Court sword with him.’

‘You think of everything,’ said Roger gratefully; and when the Abbé and the Vicomte had saluted each other, he added: ‘There is only one thing now which troubles me, and that gravely. ’Tis unavoidable that de Caylus and his servants will recognise you both. Should his death result from the encounter I fear you may be dragged into the matter as accomplice of his unknown killer. I therefore desire that immediately the Count alights you should both leave us, in order that you may not be witnesses to the actual affray.’

‘’Tis not necessary,’ declared the Abbé. ‘I propose that afterwards we should say we accompanied you only for the purpose of enabling you to arrange a meeting with the Count at some other time and place. ’Twas not our fault that you lost your tempers there and then, and once the fight was on there was naught we could do to stop it.’

The Vicomte nodded. ‘’Tis an admirable explanation to save us from considerable embarrassment.’

‘Aye, ’tis excellent,’ Roger agreed. ‘But there is yet one more fence. An inquiry is certain to be held. Will the Court not press you both to name the masked man for whom you acted? And ’tis as important for Mademoiselle de Rochambeau’s sake as for my own that my identity should remain a secret.’

‘I, too, had thought of that,’ de Périgord smiled. ‘If M. de la Tour d’Auvergne is willing I suggest that we should refuse to speak. We are both nobles, so even the King himself cannot give an order for us to be put to the question. But to indicate a reason for our silence we will give the impression that De Caylus’s antagonist was a man of such rank that the maintenance of secrecy is imperative to prevent a scandal. We might even infer that it was one of the younger Princes of the Blood, since if the Court thinks that it will at once do its best to hush the matter up.’

‘You relieve me greatly,’ said Roger with a sigh. ‘As for myself, since seeing you last, Abbé, I have received news that my mother is seriously ill, so I may be leaving Paris on that account tomorrow; but I have not made up my mind as yet whether her case is so bad as to warrant my immediate
departure. If, having slept upon it, I decide to go, I may have no further opportunity of thanking you for all you have done for me, so I do so now with all my heart.’

De Périgord bowed. ‘I shall regret it if you leave, but I trust that you will write to me in your absence, and soon return to resume a friendship which has given me great pleasure. And now, I think the time has come when we should take up our position on the road that leads to de Caylus’s
petite maison
. I will drive on and the two of you can follow my coach at some little distance.’

That evening light gave the early autumn tints of the trees a special loveliness as they proceeded at a gentle trot towards the little village of Chaville, but half a mile before reaching it the coach turned off, entering a forest track that led south-eastwards. Three-quarters of a mile along it they came to an open grassy space, in which there was a crossroad. Here the party halted, the coach drawing up where the two roads met while Roger and the Vicomte remained some way away, edging their horses in among the trees so that they should not be seen by anyone approaching. The Abbé got out of his coach and stood by the roadside, as though in some difficulty and waiting to ask assistance of the next passer-by. Under his arm he carried a lengthy package that looked like a roll of silk, and Roger guessed that the two duelling-swords must be concealed within it.

It was very silent in the forest; only the occasional call of a bird, or a scurry in the undergrowth broke the stillness, and the time of waiting seemed interminable. Roger’s thoughts were a confused jumble; Athénaïs; the fencing-bouts that he had had in the past few days; his boyhood home at Lymington; the meeting that M. de Rochambeau was to hold that night; his long-past, drunken, midnight brawl with the Chevalier de Roubec; all drifted and mingled in his agitated mind.

At last there came the drumming of horses’ hooves from the track to the west of the clearing. Roger craned forward across his horse’s neck, straining with impatience to know if it was actually his enemy’s coach approaching, or that of some other wayfarer. Suddenly, between the trees, he glimpsed the vehicle; it was a six-horse coach and the postilion was wearing the Comte de Caylus’s green and gold livery.

The Abbé stepped forward into the road and waved his
package; the coach rumbled to a halt. What happened next Roger and the Vicomte could not see, as de Périgord was on the far side of the coach and the light was no longer strong enough for them to see through its windows at that distance.

To Roger the next three minutes seemed an eternity. Then the Abbé emerged from behind the coach and came limping quickly towards them. He was only half way across the glade when the coach started into motion. Roger and de la Tour d’Auvergne broke cover and cantered out to meet de Périgord.

‘’Tis of no use!’ cried the Abbé. ‘I vowed that you were a person of consequence and would reveal yourself if he would step apart—out of sight of his servants. I told him that M. de la Tour d’Auvergne would see fair play, and that we had a doctor with us; but he was adamant. He says he will not fight, were you the King himself.’

De Périgord’s coach blocked the way, so de Caylus’s coachman had had to urge his horses up on to the grass in order to drive round it, but he was now clear of the other coach and back on the road again beyond it.

Roger cast a reproachful glance at the Abbé. He had banked everything on that subtle tongue of his, which could be either so silver or envenomed at will, taunting de Caylus into accepting the challenge. It now flashed into his mind that de Périgord had, in an endeavour to save him from himself, played a game with him. From the beginning the Abbé had made it so clear that he did not consider it worth risking death to save a girl from being married, just because she did not like her father’s choice of husband for her. It must be that, all along, he had intended to deliver the challenge in a manner which would enable it to be refused without loss of face.