The Launching of Roger Brook

'Tis not winter either, so we'll not have to tramp through mud and rain, but 'tis a good season of the year; and by autumn we'll have made enough to take our journeys easily, lying up for the day at a warm fireside whene'er the weather proves inclement.'

It was the last argument that decided Roger. By autumn his father would almost certainly have gone to sea again, and if he could then return home with a pocket full of louis honour would be satisfied. England offered no such prospect of a face-saving return, and during August and September what could really be more pleasant than a walking tour through France with its stimulating newness to him, its exciting foods and its volatile people?

'So be it,' he said with a smile. 'I'll come with you, but I make one stipulation.'

'What is it?'

'That I keep the purse.'

The Doctor gave him a rueful look. 'Do'st grudge me my dram of Cognac?'

'Nay, not in reason; but for your sake as well as my own I wish to ensure that by autumn our pockets are tolerably well lined.'

' 'Tis said that old heads do not grow upon young shoulders, but methinks yours will serve you well enough.'

'Maybe I have aged somewhat swiftly overnight,' commented Roger drily. 'Is it agreed?'

'Yes; and in truth I should be grateful to you, since you propose to do for me that which I doubt my having the strength of will to do for myself.'

'When do we set out?'

'To-morrow morning, if you will. After dejeuner we will go forth into the town to purchase our requirements. This evening we will make some of them up in Maitre Pi card's brewhouse, which he has on numerous previous occasions lent me for the purpose, and will no doubt again.'

It was now a little after midday and, at that moment, the serving man put his head round the door to say that dejeuner was ready; so Roger and Dr. Aristotle went through to the coffee room and sat down to it together.

Being accustomed to the English fashion of making a hearty breakfast then taking the main meal of the day at four o'clock, Roger was somewhat surprised to find this midday repast more substantial than that he had been given the previous evening; but he was quick to realise that as the French eat only rolls and confiture on rising they must sadly need something more filling before mid-afternoon; so their so-called 'breakfast' was really their dinner, and the evening meal considered by them to be of secondary importance.

When they had finished Dr. Aristotle took Roger out to the stable and presented him to Monsieur de Montaigne, a quiet and elderly mule, so named, the Doctor explained, on account of his wisdom and sagacity. It was Monsieur de Montaigne's function to transport from place to place, in a pair of capacious panniers, his master's few personal posses­sions and stock-in-trade, and to carry strapped lengthwise on top of them a contraption made of wood and canvas which could swiftly be erected into a street pulpit. Saddling the mule with his panniers they led him out on to the quay and bent their steps towards the centre of the city.

Roger had no intention of laying himself open to being tricked twice in one day, so when the Doctor halted in a side street before an apothecary's, he made no move to produce his money, but the old man did not even suggest it; he simply tied his mule to a ring in the wall and beckoned Roger to follow him inside.

Half an hour went by while the apothecary weighed and measured a score of ingredients ranging from great jars of iat to little phials of crude but pungent scent. After some haggling on the Doctor's part Roger parted with one louis seven crowns and a franc, then they carried their purchases outside and loaded them on to Monsieur de Montaigne.

Their next visit was to an epicerie where the Doctor added to then-store a quantity of soap, sugar, cheap sweets and spices, including a good supply of peppercorns, for an outlay of three crowns six sous. After this they went to the warehouse of a wholesale china and glass dealer from whom they purchased several score of containers for their wares; bottles of various sizes, jars, pots and little hand-painted vases, which cost a further five crowns.

Roger thought that their business was now completed, but he proved mistaken. Instead of turning back towards Les Trois Fleur-de-Lys Doctor Aristotle led the way farther into the city, and they walked on for the best part of a mile until they had passed through it and were in a leafy Faubourg leading up to the Bastion de Tourneville. Some way along it the Doctor halted opposite a squat, ivy-covered cottage with a thatched roof, and said:

'I have to make another purchase here and I shall require a louis.'

'But we have only some thirteen crowns left,' expostulated Roger, 'and if I give you eight of them, after we've settled up at the inn, we'll have next to nothing left for emergencies.'

The Doctor shrugged. 'My score is already settled; since, knowing my sad habits, Mattre Picard makes me pay always in advance; and having been there but a day yours cannot be a heavy one. Give me the money, I beg. 'Tis to acquire a drug which is ever one of my most profitable lines and at nowhere else do I know a place to obtain it nearer than Rouen.'

Roger half suspected that the old man wanted to obtain the louis for some purpose of his own, but he had so far had no grounds for doubting his honesty and felt that as long as the mule, with its now valuable cargo, remained in his charge he had ample security; so with some reluctance he counted out the money.

The door of the cottage was opened by a repulsive old crone with a bent back, hairs upon her bony chin and a black cat perched upon her shoulder. Roger felt sure she was a witch, and hastily averted his gaze as the Doctor went inside with her.

The thought that his partner was about to purchase some rare and expensive decoction from this sinister old woman gave Roger furiously to think. What kind of drug could the Doctor possibly require that was not obtainable at an apothecary's? Could it be that he was not merely an old quack whose worst fault lay in selling remedies, many of which he knew to be worthless?

In the time of Louis XIV all Europe had been horrified by the disclosures at the trials of the infamous La Voisin and the Marquise de Brinvilliers. A vast conspiracy had been uncovered in which hundreds of people had been involved, including the King's favourite, Madame de Montespan. Her young rival, Mademoiselle de Fontanges, had died in agonised convulsions after drinking a cup of fruit juice on her return from hunting with the King. The inquiry, on which her family had insisted, had revealed the existence of a great organisation fostering the practice of Satanism and willing to ensure the death of unwanted husbands, parents and rivals for a price, in many cases as low as ten Louis. Although the King had refused to allow a case to be brought against his old favourite, on account of the children he had had by her, it had led to her downfall, and a number of her associates had been broken on the wheel. Hundreds of mysterious deaths had been traced to their evil machinations and, as a result, France had not even yet lived down the reputation of being a land where poisoning was rife. Could it be that Doctor Aristotle Fenelon made the more remunerative part of his precarious living as a poisoner?

When the Doctor came out of the cottage he showed Roger a fair-sized bottle three parts full of liquid.

'What is that?' asked Roger, striving to conceal his perturbation.

' 'Tis Ergot of Rye,' replied the Doctor shortly, 'an invaluable specific for the ills to which many young women become subject,' but he refused to amplify his statement, so Roger was left only partially satisfied as to the purpose for which this expensive acquisition was intended.

As they walked back towards the centre of the town Georgina's prediction recurred to him. She had said that he would be in grave danger from water; and he had been. She had said that he would meet with a man that boded no good to him and had something the matter with his left eye; and, wondering that he had not thought of it before, Roger now recalled the scar running up to the eye corner on De Roubec's left cheek. She had said that he would go into some form of partnership with an old man who would prove a good friend to him, yet that no permanent good would come to him from it.

But it was too late now to speculate on whether or no the Doctor was the old man she had seen in the glass. Roger realised that his last chance of getting back to England had vanished with the completion of their purchases that afternoon and only a few francs now stood between him and starvation. The die was