The Launching of Roger Brook

sum. That thirteen per cent of the population, with the Crown, enjoys two-thirds of the wealth of France; yet it contributes next to nothing. Can you be surprised that the country is on the verge of revolution?'

'You really think so?'

'I do. At my club we professional men now talk of little else. The Court has isolated itself and must reform or perish. The monarchy has become the symbol of oppression, and even the nobles regard the King with contempt. Were he different there might be some hope for the regime but his weakness will prove his ruin, and may bring ruin upon all France as well.'

Roger was often to remember this conversation, but by the following morning he had dismissed it from his mind and, once more, entered wholeheartedly into the New Year gaieties. He danced a score of minuets, flirted again with several of his past casual inamoratas and enjoyed the hearty laughter at Maitre Leger's hospitable table. When he took leave of these good friends he could not know that he would not see them again until their comfortable world was shattered; and that they would then be hunted fugitives, seeking to escape with their lives from the Terror, which was so soon to engulf the bourgeoisie as well as the aristocracy.

By the evening of 2nd January, 1786, Roger was back at Becherel, greatly refreshed by his break and anxious to take up his intriguing work again. A few evenings later, with Brochard's list in hand, he searched the shelves of the Marquis's library and found quite a number of the books that had been recommended to him. Then, while early twilight still forced him to spend most of his leisure hours indoors, he gave himself up to a study of those works which had played such a large part in rendering the bourgeoisie discontented, and contributed in no small manner to the Revolution.

Montesquieu's Persian Letters he enjoyed; appreciating the spirit of reaction against the vanity and folly of Louis XIV, and his splendid but shallow Court, that animated the book; but he could not get on with the same author's most famous work, The Spirit of the Laws. Quesnay, the enlightened physician of Madame de Pompadour, who had been termed by his followers the 'Confucius of Europe' appealed to him as a writer of sound commonsense, as did also Quesnay's friend, the Marquis de Mirabeau. Jean Jacques Rousseau he soon discarded, having formed the opinion that the 'Sage of Geneva,' with his nonsense about everyone returning to nature, was no more than a sloppy sentimentalist. Mably's ideas that all property should be held in common seemed to him those of a dangerous anarchist. But Voltaire proved a mine of unalloyed delight. The great cynic said so clearly and amusingly just what every broadminded and sensible person felt.

As the days lengthened, Roger began to go hawking and coursing with Chenou again, but somehow it seemed that their sport nearly always brought them near the little river on the bank of which he had had his set-to with Athenais.

The sight of the stream was enough to recall the memory of her to him with poignant vividness, and whenever he thought of her now it was to excuse her conduct there while condemning his own. He argued that she had behaved only in accordance with her upbringing whereas he should have known better than to take such a mean revenge. The fact that she had refrained from charging him with his crime, and a very heinous crime it was under French law, he put down to her generous and Christian spirit; and that she had returned good for evil by coming to dress his hurts made him see her now as a beautiful martyr turned ministering angel. For her to have done so, he persuaded himself, was a certain sign of her forgiveness and he regretted more than ever that she had left for Paris before he had had a chance to beg her pardon on his knees. With every week that passed his longing to see her again increased, and he felt that he would be prepared to suffer any humiliation if only it would restore him to her good graces. But Paris was a far cry from Becherel and any hope of his getting there seemed as remote as if he had desired a journey to the moon.

Towards the end of February he had a dream about Georgina. During his first year in France he had often thought of her, sometimes with a keen surge of physical longing engendered by memories of that unforgettable embrace up in the tower, at others with shame at having failed her so lamentably. Then, as time wore on, her image had come to his mind more rarely, but always with tenderness and happy memories of the countless hours of joyous companionship that they had known together as boy and girl. During those early months, when he had thought of her so frequently, he had always put off writing to her in the hope that if he waited a little longer, when he did write, he would have a better report to give of his affairs; but his situation had improved only by such slow degrees, unmarked by any spectacular triumph, that he had never yet reached a point which had seemed to call for a full disclosure to her of his initial folly, later humdrum existence, and still indifferent prospects.

Yet in his dream he saw her with extraordinary vividness. He could see the rich colouring of her ripe, voluptuous beauty and almost feel her warm breath upon his cheek. Her dark eyes were sparkling with excitement as she reached out and, taking his left hand in hers, drew him swiftly along beside her. He had no idea where she was leading him but he saw that in his right hand he held a thick roll of parchment. Then he found himself in a shadowy room standing before the Marquis, and Georgina's voice came clearly from somewhere in his rear.

'Give it to him!' she was saying. 'Give it to him, Roger, darling. 'Tis that way your fortune lies.'

Then the dream faded and he woke with a start; yet for a minute he had a strong impression that Georgina was still standing there near him in the darkness.

Now fully awake, he could recall every circumstance of the dream, and more, he was suddenly aware that the roll of parchment he had been carrying was the claim to the Domaine de St. Hiliare.

The Marquis had said that when the work was finished, but not before, Roger was to report to him wherever he might be. He had meant, Roger felt certain, report in writing; but he had not definitely said so. It now flashed into Roger's mind that he could not be blamed if he chose to interpret the order as one to report in person. That would mean his going to Paris, and in Paris he would see Athenais.

He had already translated the greater part of the documents, so the back of the job was broken; but he had yet finally to collate them and make a full, clearly reasoned brief on the whole subject.

From the following morning on he completely abandoned all his other pursuits. Not an hour would he give to hunting, fencing or reading the Encyclopaedists; not a moment to day-dreaming about Athenais. Shut up in his room at the top of the house he laboured with unflagging energy, hour after hour, day after day, from early in the morning until his eyes were blurred with fatigue at night. He knew that he could not set out for Paris one second before the whole tangled skein had been completely unravelled and its threads laid out in lines plain for anyone to see; and every second spent on the work brought him a second nearer to once again beholding his beloved.

For nearly seven weeks he stuck grimly to his task, grudging even the time he had to give to eating and sleeping, but, at last, it was finished. Every document had been numbered and put back in the big chest. A fat folder contained an index to them and a precis of each; and, with a sense beyond his years, he had composed two briefs instead of one. The first was a twenty-five-thousand word history of the claim, besprinkled with genealogical trees, references and quotations from the original material. It was intended for the lawyers who would handle the case, but, foreseeing that the Marquis would probably have neither the time nor the inclination to wade through this long and complicated argument, Roger had prepared a separate statement for him. It contained a clear, concise summary of all the salient points in less than two thousand Words.

On the 16th of April, taking his two briefs and a small valise, Roger set out for Paris. Forthe first stage, into Rennes, he took one of the Marquis's best horses, but he paused there only to eat a quick meal, then went on by post. Travelling light, as he was, he made good going, and along the main roads he found no difficulty in securing relays. Normally, he would have stopped for a few hours in each of the towns through which he passed to see something of them, but obsessed by the one idea that

every mile he covered brought him nearer to Athenais he halted only to eat, sleep and change horses. Vitre, Mayenne, Alencon, Chartres and Rambouillet were all passed by him with unseeing eyes, and on the afternoon of the 21st of April he rode into the crowded, smelly streets of Paris.

Aldegonde had told him how to find the Hotel de Rochambeau, which lay in the Rue St. Honore, hard by the Palace of the Louvre. It was a huge, old-fashioned house with turrets, balconies and upper storeys that overhung a central courtyard.

Handing his horse over to a groom who was lounging there he hurried into the house. He had no thought now for the documents which had cost him such arduous toil, or for the Marquis to whom he was to present them. Yet he dared not ask direct for Athenais and had already made up his mind that the quickest way to secure tidings of her was to pay his respects without a moment's delay to Madame Marie-Ange.

Two footmen were standing in the hall and one of them came forward to ask his business.

'Madame Velot,' he almost gasped, 'I wish to see her—urgently. Please to tell her that Monsieur Breuc is