The Launching of Roger Brook

In spite of the semi-darkness he made good going all through the outskirts of Paris, and even when he reached the cobbled streets still did not spare his fast-failing mount. A church clock was striking the quarter after ten as he passed the Tuilleries. Five minutes later, he clattered past a long line of waiting coaches outside the Hotel de Rochambeau, and turned into its courtyard.

Flinging himself off the steaming horse he threw the bridle to a groom, who had come running out of the stable at the sound of the hoof-beats on the pave, then he ran to the door of the mansion.

As he reached it a sudden thought struck him. It was now too late to go up to his room and tidy himself before the meeting, as he had planned, and, although he could do that downstairs, he could not appear before the Marquis wearing a sword. Swiftly unbuckling his weapon he leant it against the stonework in a dark corner of the porch, where it would be easy for him to reclaim it on his way out.

On his entering the hall the two footmen on duty exclaimed in dismay at the blood on his face, but with a muttered Word to them that his injury was nothing to worry about, he dived into the powder-closet. Having washed his face and hands and tidied his hair he called to one of the men to brush the dust off his clothes, then dashed upstairs.

In his office he found his assistant in a state of excited apprehension on his behalf. The Marquis had been furious at Roger's disappearance and had ordered Paintendre to prepare the conference table but refused his offer to take notes.

As the easiest explanation for his lateness, the abrasion on his forehead and the rip in the shoulder of his coat where de Caylus's sword had torn it, Roger said abruptly that he had been set upon by footpads, then asked: 'Are they all inside? How long have they been assembled?'

'No more than a quarter of an hour,' Paintendre replied. 'Most of them were here and arguing well before ten, but the Archbishop of Toulouse was a little late.'

That the new Prime Minister had kept the appointment was all Roger wished to know. Taking a piece of paper he hastily scrawled upon it.

Monseigneur,

My service and most humble apologies for such inconvenience as my absence may have caused you. I had the misfortune to be attacked by footpads and was rendered incapable of returning to attend you earlier.

He would not have bothered, but for a sudden fear that unless he offered some explanation the Marquis might, in a fit of cold anger, send him from the room as soon as he appeared. With the paper in his hand he opened the door of the council chamber as noiselessly as he could, slipped quietly inside, and gave a swift look round.

The fifteen nobles who had attended the previous afternoon's gathering were all present and with them, seated on the Marquis's right, was Lomenie de Brienne, Archbishop of Toulouse, now Prime Minister of France. The prelate was wearing the violet robes of his ecclesiastical dignity and, with one alabaster hand, was toying with a great diamond and sapphire cross suspended from his neck by a satin ribbon.

As Roger entered de Castries was giving details of the naval preparations at Brest for the seizure of the Dutch ports. The Archbishop was listening to him attentively, but the Marquis was drawing figures on the wad of paper that lay before him and, looking up as the door opened, glowered at Roger. Tiptoeing round the big oval table Roger placed the note he had written by the Marquis's hand, made a low bow, and tiptoed away again towards his own little table beside the door.

On sitting down he was conscious of a sudden wave of relief. It was the last time that he would ever make his 'humble service' to this frigid and heartless aristocrat. In another hour or two he would be his own master again, for a time at least; and, within a week, either free for good of this hateful subservience or occupying a condemned cell. Brushing the thought aside he gave all his attention to the meeting.

Within a few minutes he realised that it was, so far, no more than a repetition of that held the previous day. Evidently de Rayneval and the Comte de Maillebois had already made their reports on the situation in the United Provinces, and now the Ministers were outlining the state of immediate readiness of the French armed forces to undertake a lightning stroke.

As the phrases and arguments that he had heard before rolled smoothly from the tongues of de Breteuil, de Polignac and the rest, Roger's mind began to wander. In vivid flashes he saw again the critical phases of the terrible combat in which he had so recently engaged. He recalled de Perigord's cynical smile as he announced his intention of carrying the dead man's mistress off to supper, and the Vicomte's announcement that he meant to wait upon Athenais before setting out on his flight to Brittany. He wondered anxiously and sorrowfully what would become of Athenais, and if he would ever see her again. To his acute distress he had to admit to himself that it was most improbable, since nothing now could prevent her being immured in a convent, and, if he did succeed in escaping to England, he would never be able to return to France without imperilling his life.

A full hour went by and the Archbishop was asking the opinion of the Foreign Secretary, who had not yet spoken. M. de Montmorin showed none of his hesitation of the previous afternoon but now came out openly on the side of the camarilla that had plotted for war.

As Roger listened with half an ear he realised that the all-important decision would, at last, soon be taken, and that he must pull himself together. For the past half-hour he had been feeling completely exhausted. During his ride back to Paris the excitement of his victory and the urgency of getting to the meeting had prevented him from being fully conscious of his physical state. But, since he had been sitting in the council chamber he had felt with increasing severity the strain he had been through. The duel alone had proved a most gruelling ordeal and in it he had sustained certain injuries, hardly noticed at the time, but now nagging at him. The blood from the cut on his shoulder had dried and his shirt was sticking to it, so that it hurt every time he moved; the place where de Caylus's sword-hilt had struck him on the forehead had swollen into a big lump which throbbed dully.

The Comte de Montmorin had hardly ceased speaking when the Marquis came in to the attack. At first his tone was restrained and as he arrayed his well-reasoned arguments Roger was trying to think what he must do when the meeting ended.

The bulk of the money he had saved while in the service of M. de Rochambeau was in a separate bag, with the Marquis's bullion, in the coffret-fort that lay in the office outside, and to it he had the key. As soon as the meeting was over and the Marquis had gone to his own apartments he must collect that, and, he reminded himself with Scottish carefulness, help himself to a further twenty louis that were due to him for the month of August that had just expired. Then he would slip downstairs, collect his sword, saddle the best horse in the stable, and so away.

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 Athenais. 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 Athenais, 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 Athenais 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 loll 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