The Launching of Roger Brook

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'etat on the ioth 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 Butch 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 tins imperialistic juggernaut. It was not Lomenie 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 Due 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 had wounded me and killed de Caylus this very night! Aye, and the cur has brought indelible shame upon our house. He has seduced Athenais!'

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.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE THREE FUGITIVES

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 outer. 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