He danced with Amanda only once that evening, and afterwards they sat together on the curved staircase leading up to the first floor. When she charged him with having been unkind to George, he looked at her in feigned astonishment, and said:
“Unkind! My dear Amanda, why in the world should you think that? I regard him as a prodigious fine fellow. He is so undisputably right in his setting—and so very British.”
“You cannot deceive me,” she smiled. “You think him a bore; but he has many qualities that make him at this moment a better man than yourself. I would rather hear him blurt out his honest opinions than listen to you airing the shallow cynicisms you have learnt abroad.”
Roger realised that he had overplayed his hand; but her remark did nothing to lessen his conviction that Gunston was a coarse-grained brute. On the contrary, it determined him to take up the implied challenge, so he asked Amanda if she would go for a ride with him the following morning.
From mid-August they went for rides almost daily, and met at every party given in the neighbourhood. At Priestlands, Vicar’s Hill and Buckland Manor they danced half the evening together. But Roger was vaguely conscious that he was not as popular among his old friends as he had been in the past. They could not complain of his manners, but sensed a hardness in him that had not been there before. His interests had grown away from theirs, and thinking he had become conceited they openly showed their preference for the simple, boisterous George, who, if he had never graced a Court, was “a darn’ good man to hounds”.
And George fought back. He was nothing if not persistent, and Amanda never failed in kindness to him; but Roger’s goading at length provoked an open quarrel. When three parts drunk one night, early in September, after a ball at Highcliffe Castle, he challenged Roger to a duel.
It was against the canons for any two men who had already fought to fight a second time, except in very exceptional circumstances, and Roger knew that if the affair was noised abroad George would risk the loss of his commission. As Roger was the challenged party the choice of weapons and place lay with him, so next morning he sent two friends to tell Gunston’s seconds that his choice was swords, but that unless George could obtain his Colonel’s permission to fight with naked blades they would settle the matter with buttoned foils in the courtyard at Walhampton, under cover of a fencing tournament, which could easily be arranged for the purpose.
George realised that he had no alternative but to accept these conditions, so a day was fixed and a dozen bouts arranged, with Roger and George as the concluding contest. A numerous company, including Amanda and two-score other ladies, assembled to see the sport, which was just what Roger wanted.
Everyone present was aware of the bitter animosity that lay between the participants in the last bout, so as it began a hushed expectancy fell on the spectators. George was no bad swordsman, but Roger had learned the art in French schools as well as English, and was infinitely his superior. For the first few minutes he merely played with George to amuse the ladies, then he proceeded to whip him round the yard as though he was a novice being given a harsh lesson by a professional. In the bouts that followed Roger was an easy winner, and it was not until the final that he had to extend himself fully against a hard-bitten Major of Hussars, but he won the bout by five points to three.
George Gunston was not the type of man who gives way to tears, but afterwards, had he been able to, he would have done. Yet Roger gained no immediate benefit from his public triumph. Secretly he felt rather ashamed of himself for the way in which he had behaved; so he was not surprised when Amanda told him with, for her, quite unusual sharpness, that it had been ungenerous in him to humiliate his rival to such a degree, or that she had spent the evening consoling George for his defeat. Nevertheless, the affair took all the swagger out of George, and his mortification was so keen that two days later he left the field clear to Roger by going on leave.
When Roger first heard the news he was delighted; but very soon his victory turned to dust and ashes in his mouth. He realised only too clearly that for the past month his efforts had been directed to ousting George, not winning Amanda, and now he had her on his hands. He knew, too, that although he had been driven to it by his unhappiness, ever since the night of the dance his mother had given for him he had played a part quite unworthy of himself; and the thought that he might now cause Amanda pain by having led her on added further to his misery.
A week after the fencing tournament she brought matters to a head herself. She was an unconventionally minded young woman who cared little what servants, or anyone else, thought of her; so on several occasions in the previous winter she had slipped out of her uncle’s house after everyone else was in bed to go with Roger for walks round the grounds in the frosty moonlight; and soon after his return they had resumed these clandestine meetings.
Now, on these warm summer nights, if they had not been out dancing, they usually went down to one of Walhampton’s three lovely wood-fringed lakes and, getting out a punt from the Chinese pagoda boat-house, spent an hour or so on the water.
On this occasion they were drifting gently, looking up at the myriad stars, and had been silent for a few minutes when Amanda said quietly:
“Do you not think the time has come when you should ask my uncle for my hand in marriage?”
Roger stiffened on the cushions where he lay. Subconsciously he had recently been dreading such a situation; and although he was extremely fond of Amanda as a companion he still felt that he would never love anyone, apart from Isabella, sufficiently to want to marry them.
After a moment she gave her low laugh. “Be not distressed, my dear, at the prospect of so awful a fate; for did you ask me I would not have you.”
His relief was mingled with the most acute embarrassment. He could not be certain that she really meant what she had said, and was desperately anxious not to hurt her feelings. But before he could think of anything appropriate to say, she went on:
“You are in love with someone else, are you not?”
“I’ll not deny it,” he confessed. “And if I have led you to think otherwise my only excuse is a genuine fondness for you. Yet that is no real excuse and I feel so meanly about it now that I could throw myself in the lake from shame.”
“Do nothing so desperate, I beg,” she smiled; “for the resulting scandal would prove my utter ruin. But I knew it all along from your kisses. Your heart does not lie in them. Tell me about her.”
Roger shrugged unhappily. “I will spare you the harrowing details. She is a Spanish lady that I met abroad. Although she is of the Popish faith we had plighted our troth; but her family intervened, and she is now married to another; so my case is hopeless.”
“That accounts, then, for the new bitterness that all your friends have observed in you since your return. But it will pass. You must occupy your mind, Roger; and with something of more worth than making a fool out of a poor booby like George Gunston.”
“You are right,” he sighed, “and prodigious generous to me in taking my ill conduct to you so well.”
“Think no more of that,” she said after a moment. “I have derived much pleasure from your company, and shall ever think of you with kindness; though we can no longer continue as at present. As long as George was dancing attendance on me I could afford to let you do so too; for it was assumed that I was hesitating as to which of you I would take. But by driving him away you have put a period upon our intimacy. All south Hampshire will now expect to hear of our engagement, and if they do not, malicious tongues will begin to wag. That I may be spared such unpleasantness either you or I must shortly take coach and leave Lymington to think what it will.”
Full of contrition at the awkward situation in which he had placed her, Roger immediately volunteered to leave the next day. But, on second thoughts, he suggested that, if it would not too seriously interfere with her plans, it would be better for her to leave first, as that would give the impression that it was she who had broken off their affair.
As it was now mid-September, and a few people would be drifting back to London, Amanda agreed that his idea was a sound one. Kissing him lightly on the cheek she declared that she would announce her departure for the end of the week. He, rather shamefacedly, returned her caress and said that until she went he would press his attentions more assiduously than ever, then shut himself up at home as though broken-hearted at losing her. A moment later they saw the funny side of the little comedy they proposed to play for the benefit of their acquaintances, and were laughing over it.
So Roger got out of the mess in which he had landed himself far easier than he deserved, and he was genuinely sorry when, with the longest face he could pull, he watched her coach drive away to London. Her going left him lonely once more and even his disappointed mother was taken in by the return of his moodiness. He had no need to act a part, as with lack of companionship his thoughts turned inwards again and with the loss of Amanda he felt more bitterly than ever the, to him, infinitely greater loss of Isabella.
In consequence, Lady Marie was not surprised when, three days after Amanda’s departure, he announced that he would shortly be returning to France. The following Wednesday he took passage in a brig sailing with a cargo of salt from Lymington, and on the evening of Thursday September the 24th landed at Le Havre.
Chapter XV
The Assassins
The upheavals that had shaken France only two months earlier were of such magnitude that Roger expected many signs of their repercussion to be visible in so large a city as Le Havre; so he was somewhat surprised to find that, apart from the new uniforms of the National Guard, there was little overt evidence to show that the Revolution had ever taken place. The town was orderly and people going about their business in a normal fashion.
There being nothing to detain him there, next morning he bought a bay mare with a white star on her forehead, and set out for Paris. Inland, just as in the Pas de Calais, here and there the blackened walls of roofless châteaux told their horrifying tale; but others that had escaped the holocaust still dignified the countryside, and within sight of them the peasants were placidly working in the fields as they had for generations.
Paris, too, showed little outward change, except that fewer private equipages with footmen in attendance were to be seen in the streets than formerly; so it seemed at first sight that France had come through the birth-pangs of her regeneration surprisingly quickly.
But Roger soon learned that all was far from well beneath the surface. At La Belle Êtoile, his landlord answered an enquiry as to how he did with a glum shake of the head. Business had never been so bad as during the past month. Every man now considered himself as good as his master, which was foolish because the world could not go on that way; and what good did it do anyone to assume such superior airs if it brought no money into their pockets? The workpeople now had to be asked to do every little thing instead of accepting an order, and they did it or not as they felt inclined. Most of them idled away half the day, but they expected their wages just the same at the end of the week. In fact they were demanding more. In that Monsieur Blanchard would have sympathised with them, had they been willing to do an honest day’s work; as corn was still terribly scarce and the cost of living higher than ever. But one could not pay people higher wages when one’s own takings had fallen by more than 50 per cent. That stood to reason. Where all the money had gone he did not know. It was said that the thousands of aristocrats who had emigrated at the beginning of August had taken it all with them. There might be some truth in that. It was certainly no longer in Paris.
Wherever Roger went he heard the same gloomy story, and he soon became aware of the reason that lay behind it. On the 4th of August an extraordinary scene had taken place in the National Assembly. A report on the disorders in the Provinces had been presented the previous day and the deputies were considering how to produce some measure which would appease the fury of the peasants.
Two noblemen, the Vicomte de Noailles and the young Due d’Aiguillon, came forward and proposed that a solemn declaration should be made assuring future equality of taxation for all and the suppression of feudal burdens, except in certain cases where they should be redeemable by long-term purchase. Others rose to support the motion and there followed a stampede of self-denial which afterwards earned the session the name of “The Night of Sacrifices”.
The Bishop of Chartres proposed the abolition of the game laws; de Beauharnais that punishment for crime should be the same for all classes, and that all ranks in the Public Services should be thrown open to everyone; de la Rochefoucauld that the vote be given to all serfs remaining in the Kingdom. The Archbishop of Aix moved the abolition of the salt tax; the Duc de Châtelet that tithes in kind should be commuted, and the Bishop of Uzes recognised the right of the nation to dispose of the property of the Church. The deputies of the Third Estate, not to be outdone, then tumbled over themselves in their eagerness to renounce the privileges of the Provinces and cities they represented.
The renowned economist, Dupont de Nemours, was one of the very few to throw some doubt on the wisdom of this wholesale wrecking of the ancient order, and Count Lally-Tollendal, the foremost Liberal of all the nobles, the only man to keep his head. He sent a note up to the President that read “Nobody any longer has any self-control; break up the sitting.” But a positive madness had seized upon the assembly. Before dawn it had passed every motion; and, since there was no Upper House to send back the bills for reconsideration, they became forthwith the law of France.
The result was catastrophic. In a single night the whole economy of the nation had been destroyed. Already, for a year past, or more, there had been increasing difficulty in collecting taxes; now the people refused to pay any at all. The old courts of justice had continued to function, although with decreasing efficiency; now all feudal courts and many superior ones were wiped out entirely. Overnight the Assembly had destroyed the very foundations of French society without any attempt to create even a vestige of a new system.
It was no wonder that money was scarce. Everyone who had any was now clinging to it from fear that once it was gone they would not be able to get any more. The treasury was empty, the Army and the public services unpaid. And the King could not help, as he had given all his gold plate to the nation as a means of reducing the national debt. What the colossal extravagance of Louis XIV and XV had failed to achieve the National Assembly had accomplished. France was bankrupt.
From Monsieur Aubert Roger learned that there had been changes at the British Embassy in recent months. His last contact with it had been soon after his return from Italy, so he was unaware that early in July Mr. Daniel Hailes had left on a visit to Berlin, as a prelude to becoming Minister Plenipotentiary in Warsaw, and that early in August the Duke of Dorset had gone on leave from which he would not be returning. Lord Robert Fitzgerald had joined the Embassy as First Secretary, in the spring, and was in charge pending the appointment of a new Ambassador. Roger could well understand that His Grace would have little taste for Paris now that so many of his friends there had gone into exile, and he was glad to hear of the worthy Mr. Hailes’ promotion; but he did not feel that the departure of the latter would greatly affect him, as at their meetings he had generally been the giver, rather than the receiver, of information.
To acquaint oneself with the proceedings of the National Assembly it was no longer necessary to go there, or rely on the often garbled third and fourth-hand accounts of others. After the July insurrections the Press was freed from all restraint and a number of newspapers, independent of the Government, were now appearing in Paris. They were small in size and more on the lines of political essays than news-sheets, but their circulation, particularly that of the more violent ones, soon became immense. Loustallot’s The Revolutions of Paris reached a sale of 200,000 copies, and a paper called The Friend of the People, first issued in mid-September, bid fair to rival it as the organ of the extreme Left. The latter was the work of a doctor of forty-seven, named Mar
at, a man embittered by ill-success and diseased in body and mind, and his violent diatribes against the rich did more than any other single factor to inspire the bestial excesses later committed by the mobs.
But whatever their shade of opinion, these journals gave the gist of the problems with which the Assembly was concerning itself, so by obtaining a collection of back numbers Rogers quickly acquired a general view of the present situation.
Having done so he pondered the problem of whether he should go to Versailles and present himself to the Queen. Now that so many of her friends had gone into exile, and small fry like himself were no longer likely to incur danger from associating with her, he felt confident that she would be pleased to see him. But he decided against it. Power to govern future events did not lie in the royal circle any longer. It was now vested in the leaders of the National Assembly, and a few outstanding men in Paris. Therefore, he felt, little of advantage was to be gained by dancing attendance at the emasculated Court; and, moreover, his hopeless longing for Isabella still made him so misanthropic that he shunned the thought of engaging again in the light social life he would find there.
This time he had brought with him a few old suits. They were serviceable garments that he wore during the day when at home at Lymington, and in them he could pass easily as a small property owner or respectable business man. So, eschewing his silks and satins, he now went about in honest broadcloth, intent on finding out what His Highness of Orléans was up to, and what was likely to be the outcome of the near-desperate depression in Paris.
The Rising Storm Page 34