“Madame, I have a genuine appreciation of your feelings,” Roger murmured tactfully. “As you have guessed, I am unfortunately by no means rich myself. Otherwise I would offer to make up the price you demand. As it is I can only cast myself on your good nature. I beg you, as the greatest possible favour to myself, to accept the sum he offers, and give him an assignation for tomorrow night.”
She gave him a cynical little smile, then began to laugh. “I see it now. You are in love with that equally stiff-necked black-browed wife of his, and want me to take care of him so that the coast is clear for you to get into his house.”
Roger grinned at her. “Madame, it would ill become me to admit it; but if you choose to think that the reason for my request, I should be hard put to it to prove you wrong.”
Sara Goudar shook her head. “Nay, Monsieur. You have afforded me much amusement, but I am no philanthropist. The Spaniard can well afford to pay, so if he wants me let him disgorge his ducats. As for yourself, love is the best of locksmiths and time brings opportunity. If you have an urge to enjoy his wife, good fortune to you.”
“Alas, you have named my trouble,” Roger said sadly. “I am debarred the benefits with which time so often rewards her patient votaries. I am under orders to leave Naples within thirty hours, and ’tis tomorrow night or never.”
Again she shook her head, now a little impatiently. “ ’Tis my time and your own that you are wasting, Monsieur, in this profitless conversation. I see no reason whatever why I should incommode myself to further the amours of people who are of no account to me.”
Roger now feared that he was bowling against an impregnable wicket, but he pulled his last trick. Taking her hand he suddenly changed from French to English; and, gambling on the fact that as far as he knew she had not been in Ireland since her childhood, he said with the best imitation of an Irish brogue that he could muster:
“Ach, come now! Ye’ll do it fer the sake of ould Ireland?”
Her blue eyes lit up again as she stared at him in surprise. “Are ye tellin’ me you’re Irish then?”
“Bejabbers, I am! Now wasn’t I born no more than five miles from Limerick town?”
“Ach, well now, to be sure.” She clasped his hand and put her other upon it. “ ’Tis all the difference in the wide world that’s makin’. An’ how could I bring meself to refuse such a broth of a bhoy? It’s an ould hack I am if the truth be known, for all that the blessed Saints have preserved me looks. What’s a night in a lifetime to such as meself? Sure an’ I’ll give that tailor’s dummy of a Spaniard an assignation just as yourself is wishin’. Though I’d leifer ’twas you than he that had designs on this bit of a woman that I am.”
So Roger and Sara parted the best of friends, and with a firm understanding that she should send a billet-doux to Don Diego saying that she had relented, and was prepared to receive him at midnight the following night.
Roger slept at the Palazzo Sessa. In the morning he made his adieux to Mrs. Cadogan and the Junoesque Emma, thanked them for the hospitality that they had afforded him, and said he hoped that the future might bring him some opportunity of being of service to them. Then he rode out to Caserta.
Queen Caroline received him a little before midday. They had another long talk about the difficulties of Madame Marie Antoinette, then the Queen gave him her letter, told him that he would always be welcome at the Court of Naples, and bade him god-speed.
Afterwards General Acton gave him another letter. It was addressed to the Tenente Umberto Godolfo, of the sloop Aspide. The Prime Minister said that it contained instructions for the sloop to put to sea at the earliest possible moment and convey Roger to Marseilles, or the nearest French port to which contrary winds might bring her. He added that he had selected Lieutenant Godolfo for this task because he spoke French well, and so could readily be made aware of the wishes of his passenger.
Roger thanked the General, took leave of him, then said good-bye to Sir William Hamilton with real affection and regret. By half-past two he was back in Naples. Having stabled Sir William’s horse, he had a quick meal, then took a carozza down to the harbour, where enquiries at the Castello dell’Ovo soon enabled him to run Lieutenant Godolfo to earth.
The Tenente proved to be a tall, dark young man of about the same age as Roger. On reading the Prime Minister’s order he said that he was delighted with his mission, and would be most happy to serve the Chevalier Brook to the best of his ability.
Roger then asked him how long it would take to prepare the sloop for sea.
“We have first to water and provision her,” replied the Tenente; “that will take some six hours; but I will hasten matters all I can to meet the wishes of the distinguished passenger that the Aspide is to have the honour of carrying.”
Having seen a crew of Corsican fishermen do a similar job in two hours, on the felucca that had brought him from Marseilles, Roger was not impressed; but, in view of all he had heard of the Royal Neapolitan Navy’s shortcomings, he was not surprised, and he would not have minded if the Tenente had required double the time. So he said:
“That is excellent, Tenente mio. But I beg you, do not work yourself or your men too harshly, as the lady is unlikely to come aboard before midnight. In fact I doubt if she will have completed her packing by then, so I may have to kick my heels for her till one or two in the morning.”
“The lady?” exclaimed the young officer, giving him a puzzled look.
“Yes,” Roger replied with a frown. “A lady, her maid and page are making the voyage with us.”
The Tenente glanced again at General Acton’s letter. “His Excellency the Prime Minister says nothing about a lady here.”
“Does he not!” Roger shrugged. “Ah well! Excellentissimo Acton is a busier man than you or I, Tenente, and has little time for making his letters longer than they need be. No doubt he thought it unnecessary to mention the matter, and considered it quite sufficient to order you to place yourself at my disposal.”
“Indeed, Monsieur le Chevalier,” the Tenente agreed eagerly. “I feel sure you must be right. You have only to tell me your wishes. The lady will not be as comfortable as I would like on board my little ship; but I will make the best possible preparations for her reception.”
Roger thanked him graciously, said that he hoped to bring the lady and her attendants down to the quay at about one in the morning, and, returning to his carozza, ordered its driver to take him to Crocielles.
There he booked a room, said that he was going straight to bed, asked to be called at ten o’clock that night with a light meal, and arranged for a coach with a reliable driver to call for him at a quarter to eleven.
When he was woken after his six hours’ sleep he felt fit for anything, and extraordinarily confident of success. He was sure that he could count on lovely Irish Sara to do her part, and that Isabella, having had nearly thirty-six hours for reflection, would have decided to come with him.
To his mind it was unthinkable that the proud Don Diego should take any course other than that of repudiating a wife who left him. A noble Spaniard of such ancient lineage would naturally wish to have an heir to succeed to his titles and estates, and he could not beget a legal one without a wife. For that, if for no other reason, he would obviously set about getting an annulment of his first marriage without delay, thus leaving Isabella free to marry again. Roger felt certain that after a little thought she would see that for herself; so he was now untroubled by any further doubts about the issue. Since she loved him, had abundant courage and could rest assured of reassuming an honourable status within a comparatively short time, he would find her packed and ready to enter on a new and happier future as his wife-to-be.
Having eaten his meal, washed, dressed and scented himself, he came downstairs, settled his reckoning and, going outside, gave the driver of the coach careful instructions. He then had himself driven to within a few hundred yards of Isabella’s home, got out and walked to a spot near the garden gate where he could keep it und
er observation without being seen.
To his great satisfaction, shortly after eleven o’clock, Don Diego’s tall figure emerged, and the Spaniard’s jaunty step was sufficient to indicate the happy errand on which he was bent. Roger watched him disappear from view, allowed a safety margin of ten minutes, then went in over the wall.
A light was burning in Isabella’s bedroom, so he advanced boldly across the garden and called softly up to her. After a moment she appeared darkly silhouetted against the partly open, lighted window.
“All is well, my sweet,” he said in a low voice. “Don Diego went off a quarter of an hour ago to keep a rendezvous with Madame Goudar. I arranged the matter with her myself, so I am certain of it; you have nothing to fear. Are Maria and Quetzal ready? I have a coach waiting. Shall I come up and help carry down your boxes?”
She shook her head and began to sob.
“What is it? Surely you are not still hesitating?” he asked in a slightly louder voice that held a tremor of uneasiness. “ ’Tis as certain as that tomorrow’s sun will rise, that Don Diego will ask for an annulment. He must! And the Church could not refuse to grant it to him. ’Tis the only way in which he can beget himself an heir.”
“I cannot come with you, Rojé!” she sobbed. “I cannot!”
“Why?” he cried sharply, made terse by sudden desperation. “Why not?”
“I—I cannot!” she choked out. “I—I love you! I would remain your mistress all my life. I would be your slave! There is nothing I would not do for you, except—except this. I—I—I already carry his child! I shall be the mother of his heir and—and ’twould be unforgivable to deprive him of it. I cannot go with you!”
Turning suddenly she fled back into her room. Stunned for a while, Roger stared up at the lighted oblong of the window. For him, those words of hers, “I already carry his child,” conveyed a terrible finality. He knew now instinctively that no threats, arguments or prayers could prevail. Slowly he turned about, stumbled across the garden and climbed out over its wall.
Half an hour later Lieutenant Umberto Godolfo received him board the sloop Aspide. Advancing across the narrow deck the young eapolitan spread out his hands and asked in surprise:
“But, Monsieur le Chevalier, where is the lady that you were to ring with you?”
“As far as I am concerned she is dead,” replied Roger tonelessly. Then, with a touch of his father the Admiral, he added in a voice that brooked no reply:
“Tenente. Be good enough to order your ship to sea.”
Chapter XIX
The Rising Storm
Roger had spent nine days and nights in Naples. During that time he believed himself to have been carried up to the highest peaks of human happiness and dashed down to the lowest depths of human misery. He had not only burnt the candle at both ends, but also burnt himself. For a week, lack of sleep, except for a few hours a day snatched when most other people were getting up, had made no impression on him. His splendid youth, fortified by love as by draughts of some Olympian nectar, had given him temporarily the buoyancy of a demigod. But the past forty-eight hours of uncertainty, strain and desperation had done what his physical excesses had failed to accomplish. His nerves were in shreds; he felt empty as a drum, mentally exhausted and absolutely at the end of his tether.
Yet, as he drove down to the harbour, the core of sound common sense, that acted as a balance to his highly strung nature, had enabled him to take stock of his position clearly.
It was seven months since he had first met Isabella. For one month of that time he had enjoyed a love idyll with her, and for one week a tornado of passion; but for close on half a year his love for her had deprived him of all his normal zest for life. The future offered no hope of a higher proportion of happiness against misery either for her or him. Therefore, it seemed, there was only one sensible thing to do. If he wished for any contentment in the future he must exercise his willpower as he had never done before. Each time he thought of Isabella, instead of letting his mind dwell upon her, as he had previously, he must force himself to think of something else. He must cut her right out of his life, and henceforth regard her as though she had died that night.
On his return voyage to Marseilles the weather did not favour him as it had on his outward trip. For a good part of the time it rained and blew, but not sufficiently to make him sea-sick; and so that he should not have time to brood he spent all his waking hours helping the crew with the sails and winches. On the evening of Tuesday, November 24th, after six days at sea, he said good-bye to Lieutenant Godolfo and stepped ashore. Then, knowing how anxious Madame Marie Antoinette would be to learn the result of his mission, he took post-chaise first thing next morning, sustained three days and nights of appalling jolting, and arrived in Paris at midday on the 28th.
He was, once more, incredibly tired from his arduous journey and, feeling that his reappearance at the Tuileries might arouse comment, he wished to make it at a time when it was least likely to attract attention. The next day was a Sunday, and knowing that the Sovereigns received the Foreign Ministers on that day, he felt that it would offer as good an opportunity as any; so he slept the clock round at La Belle Étoile, and made his way to the palace on the following afternoon.
There he found things much as he had left them. The Royal Family had practically no privacy. The garden was full of idlers staring in at the windows, and 800 National Guards were posted in and about the building; there were groups of them lounging in all the halls and principal rooms, and sentries on the staircases and at almost every door.
Mingling with the crowd of diplomats and such courtiers as continued to attend the royal receptions, he made his way upstairs. Most of the Ambassadors were known to him by sight, but there were not many people there with whom he had ever exchanged more than a few words, and, with one exception, to those who addressed him he mentioned casually that for the past three weeks he had been absent from Paris on a trip to England.
The exception was Lord Robert Fitz-Gerald, who was still acting as the British Chargé d’ Affaires pending the appointment of a new Ambassador. They had met several times at the far more brilliant receptions of a similar nature held at Versailles, and Lord Robert knew from Mr. Hailes of Roger’s secret activities. Roger was responsible only to Mr. Pitt, and his connection with the Embassy was limited to using it as a post-office and a bank; but, as a matter of courtesy, he thought it proper to inform Lord Robert where he had actually been; and, having done so in a low voice, he added that he would be making a full report of his journey direct to the Prime Minister.
At the entry of the Sovereigns a human lane was formed and the usual procedure gone through. Roger had placed himself in a position where the Queen could hardly fail to see him, and, on doing so, she gave a faint start, then a little nod of recognition; but she did not beckon him towards her. For the better part of an hour the King and Queen talked to various people each for a few moments, then they withdrew.
The company did not disperse at once, as these bi-weekly receptions of the Corps Diplomatique were a good opportunity for the representatives of the foreign Powers to exchange news and conduct informal business; so Roger was able to remain among them inconspicuously while waiting to be sent for, as he felt sure he would be in due course.
Presently a fair woman, some five or six years older than the Queen, paused near him. As he took in her large gentle eyes and air of tender melancholy, she gave him a faint smile. He was somewhat surprised, as, although he recalled having seen her at the Tuileries before his departure for Naples, he did not know her; but he at once returned her smile and made her a bow.
She sank in a curtsy and, as she rose from it, murmured: “Monsieur. Je suis la Princess de Lamballe.”
Her whispered introduction at once recalled to Roger all he had heard about her. She was said to be not overburdened with brains, but very pious and extremely charitable. She had married the only son of the immensely rich Duc de Penthièvre, so was the sister-in-law of the Duc d’
Orléans, but, unlike him, she was wholly attached to the Queen. After only a year of marriage her husband died, so she had devoted herself to good works on her father-in-law’s estates; but on coming to Court for the wedding celebrations of Madame Marie Antoinette, the young Dauphine had taken a great fancy to her, begged her to remain and made her Superintendent of her Household.
For some six years she had remained the Queen’s closest friend; until the latter began to frequent the gayer company of Madame de Polignac. Then, for the ten years that followed, the Princess had again given most of her time to improving the conditions of the peasants on her father-in-law’s estates, so that she had become known throughout the Province as “the good angel”. During the terrible events that had taken place at Versailles early in October she had been at Rambouillet; but, immediately on hearing of them, she had courageously driven through the night to Paris, arrived at the Tuileries on the morning of the 8th, and at once resumed her old place as the Queen’s first lady and confidante.
For a few minutes Roger exchanged the type of banalities with her that might have passed between two acquaintances who had not met for a few weeks; then she dropped her handkerchief. As he picked it up he felt the stiffness of a piece of paper in its folds. Guessing it to be a note for him, he swiftly palmed the paper before handing the handkerchief back to her. After a few more airy exchanges she left him; then he strolled out of the room, and as soon as he could find a corridor in which he would be unobserved, read the note. It ran:
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