“I shall be most grateful for your help. But tell me: is your view that held generally?”
“Widely but, unfortunately, not generally. In the Assembly the Extreme Left is against war, and although small it represents a considerable part of the nation; yet by no means its most influential part. The better type of people are more patriotic, although in this case I think their patriotism misguided. They believe that France’s ancient enemy is seeking to provoke a war in order that she may take advantage of our present weakness. In consequence, anti-British feeling is now very strong here; and, out of pride, the bulk of the educated classes would not hesitate to support a war policy rather than see France suffer the least humiliation.”
“What of the Court?”
“The King, as usual, is vacillating. He sees the danger; hence his attempts to mediate and keep Spain and Britain from one another’s throats, and thus eliminate all risk of our being drawn into the quarrel. On the other hand he is being hard pressed by the Extreme Right to give full support to Spain.”
“Why should the Right be so belligerent?”
De Périgord gave Roger a wily smile. “They see in war the one hope left of restoring the monarchy to its ancient power. As I have just said, a great part of the nation, and all its most solid elements, are already spoiling for a fight. A patriotic war would naturally rally them round the throne. The Right argue that with France in danger discipline would at once be restored in the army and marine; and that with a war in progress it would require only a well-organised coup d’état to replace the National Assembly with the old form of government.”
“Does not the Assembly see its danger?”
“The Left does, but not the Centre; and the Right is now intriguing on these lines in hopes of putting an end to the present unhappy state of affairs.”
After a moment, Roger said thoughtfully: “Even if the power of the monarchy were restored in this way, it could not long exist without granting a Liberal Constitution; and knowing you secretly to be in favour of such a régime, I am somewhat puzzled to find you opposed to the only policy that offers some hope of it.”
The Bishop shook his head. “Nay. I have but one interest at heart: the future welfare of my country. I am convinced that we could not wage a victorious war, and that defeat would mean our final ruin. Therefore I will be no party to this suicidal gamble.”
“I see your reasoning,” Roger nodded; “and admire your decision. Since that is your view, I take it that de Mirabeau, who thinks so much on the same lines as yourself, is with you?”
“Alas, no! I would to God he were. But he is secretly advising the Court to adopt a policy that will lead to war.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Roger. “I thought him near as clear-sighted as yourself, and as strongly convinced that a Franco-British alliance would prove the greatest blessing that could be granted to Europe.”
“That was his view. It is still, I think, as a long-term policy. But he is now set upon taking any step, however desperate, that might lead to a restoration of the royal authority.”
The Bishop pulled a stiff parchment from the pocket of his dressing-gown, and went on: “I received this no more than half an hour before your arrival. As President it will be my duty to lay it before the National Assembly today; and ’tis certain that its publication will cause the war fever that is now running through France to become acute. It is a letter from His Majesty in which he informs the Assembly that, owing to the menace which Britain’s war preparations hold for France, he has ordered fourteen sail-of-the-line to be got ready for sea. It is by design the Foreign Secretary, de Montmorin; but I know it to be the work of de Mirabeau.”
“This is calamitous!” muttered Roger. “Matters have already reached a far worse pass than I had even feared they might assume several weeks hence. Can naught be done to check this influence of de Mirabeau’s that has now turned out to be so malign?”
De Périgord shrugged gloomily. “I know of no way to do so. He is a very juggernaut once he has the bit between his teeth. Strange and unpalatable as such an alliance may be, it seems the only people we can count on to work for the same ends as ourselves in this emergency are Barnave, Robespierre, and the other deputies of the Extreme Left.”
“But this matter of war or peace is outside the jurisdiction of the National Assembly,” Roger argued. “So, even had they a majority, they would not have the power to decide the issue. You said yourself that it still lies within the Royal Prerogative. And, frankly, that is what I had hoped. My influence is little enough, but I have some small credit with the Queen. I mean to see Her Majesty, and do my utmost to persuade her to do all she can to prevent a war. ’Twas to attempt it that I returned to Paris.”
“I would I had your youthful optimism,” said the Bishop, with his cynical little smile, “for I would wager that in this you will do nothing with that woman.” Then he added seriously: “Nevertheless, I wish you all good fortune in your efforts to save three countries from the horrors that war must bring.”
For a further hour they talked of more general matters, then Roger returned to his hackney-coach and had himself driven to the Tuileries. There, he paid the man off, found his way up to the Princess de Lamballe’s apartment, and sent his name in by her woman. A few minutes later the Princess received him in the salon where he had had his secret interview with Madame Marie Antoinette. It was only mid-morning, so the Princess had not yet completed her full toilette, and was wearing her beautiful golden hair unpowdered, in loose ringlets falling about her neck.
When they had exchanged greetings, he asked after the health of the Queen, and she replied: “Her Majesty’s constitution is fortunately robust, but she shows signs of the great strain she has been under for the whole of the past year. Her only remaining joy lies in her children, and she gives all the time she can to teaching or playing with them.”
He then asked if the Princess could arrange an audience for him on a secret matter; and when he stressed its urgency and importance she left him to go down to the floor below by the staircase hidden in the wall of her bedroom. After about ten minutes she rejoined him, and said:
“Her Majesty is now so closely watched that she has to be careful to give such audiences only at times when she is unlikely to be missed from her apartments; but she will receive you for a few moments if you will return here at six o’clock tomorrow evening.”
Having thanked her, he left the Palace by its garden entrance. Seeing a small crowd in one corner of it he strolled over to ascertain the object of their interest. It was the little Dauphin, with Madame de Tourzel, and he was digging in his garden plot.
He was now a handsome, well-grown child of five with a gay and friendly nature. His garden was his principal joy and while he worked in it every day he entered into cheerful conversation with the bystanders, always giving away to them his few flowers as they became ready for picking. Madame de Tourzel told Roger that to see him at work had become one of the sights of Paris, and that when the generous child gave away his flowers he often apologised to the people that he could not give flowers to them all, as he would have done had he still had his much larger garden at Versailles.
That night Roger went to the Jacobin Club, and it proved to be a hectic session. The announcement in the National Assembly, earlier in the day, that the King had ordered fourteen sail-of-the-line to be prepared for immediate service had brought sudden realisation that France now really stood on the brink of war. There were bitter denunciations of both England and Spain, but a general determination to fight, although a few speakers expressed the opinion that the King ought not to be allowed to give the word for hostilities to begin without first consulting the National Assembly.
At six o’clock on the Saturday evening Roger, a little nervous at the most unorthodox step he was taking, but feeling it more than ever justified by the rapid and menacing march of events, was in the Princess de Lamballe’s apartment bowing over the hand that Madame Marie Antoinette graciously extended to him.
After he had kissed it she sat down in an elbow chair and motioned him to another. “Madame,” he demurred. “You do me too much honour.”
She smiled a little sadly. “Nay, Mr. Brook. The honours we have to bestow in these days are all too few; and we have been learning fast that friendship deserves them far more than rank. Tell me now, what led you to seek this private conversation?”
Roger produced Mr. Pitt’s Letter of Marque, and handed it to her with a bow. She read it, handed it back to him, and gave him a thoughtful glance. “I was not aware that you were in the service of your Government.”
“Madame, I have been so for some time. But may it please Your Majesty to recall that being so has never deterred me from doing my utmost to be of service to you.”
“Monsieur, I recall it well, and my presence here is an earnest of the regard I have for you. I am certain that you would never say or do aught which you did not believe to be in my interest or that of the King; so you may speak freely of all you have in mind.”
Roger then launched out on the subject he had come upon. Few people were now better acquainted with the genesis and development of the Nootka Sound dispute, and he had the gift of marshalling facts with point and fluency. He told her frankly that he had just come from Spain, and that in spite of Count Florida Blanca’s dismissal of him he was still convinced that the Spaniards would not go to war unless they felt certain that they could rely on French backing; and he assured her that Mr. Pitt’s dearest wish was to preserve the peace of Europe.
At that her eyebrows lifted. “Monsieur, your Prime Minister’s words and acts do not conform to what you tell me. He is now openly preparing with all speed for war.”
“Madame.” He spread out his hands. “I do give you my most solemn assurance that these preparations are being taken solely in answer to those known to be going forward in Spain. We have no wish for war, but cannot allow the insult done to the British flag to pass. All might yet be well, and an accommodation be reached, if only France will stand aside; but these recent measures of His Most Christian Majesty can serve only to encourage the Spaniards in their preparations, and if continued must result in an explosion.”
She shook her head. “His Majesty’s having yesterday ordered a fleet to sea is the direct outcome of Mr. Pitt having five days ago required your Parliament to vote a million for war purposes.”
“Madame, I beg you to believe me that Mr. Pitt’s measure was taken solely in accordance with his policy of showing the Spaniards that we mean business if they force us to it; and was in no way aimed at France.”
“You seem to forget, Monsieur, that France is Spain’s ally and any measure taken against one must equally be a threat to the other.”
Swiftly Roger changed his ground and strove to impress upon her how disastrous a war would prove for France in her present state; but the Queen replied a trifle haughtily:
“You would be very wrong to suppose, Monsieur, that the disturbances of the past year have in any way lessened the courage of the French people, or affected their loyalty to their country.”
Roger quickly agreed with her; then, after a moment, he took his courage in both hands and said: “I trust you will forgive me, Madame, if I remark that certain people, who hold the restoration of His Majesty’s authority a matter of more paramount importance than all else, are credited with pressing a war policy upon His Majesty, in the belief that the emergencies of war would enable him to dispense with the National Assembly.”
The Queen stood up. “Monsieur,” she said coldly. “His Majesty and I are well aware of the horrors and distresses that war inflicts upon any people who engage with it. And never would we be guilty of plunging France into war for our own selfish interests. At this very moment the King is doing his utmost to mediate between the Courts of London and Madrid, in the hope of arranging a peaceful solution between them.’
Roger had come to his feet with the Queen; now he went down on one knee before her. “I humbly crave Your Majesty’s pardon; but what hopes can be placed in such mediation while His Majesty encourages the Spaniards by such acts as ordering a fleet to sea? I implore you, Madame, to use your great influence in the interests of peace, and dissuade His Majesty from all further measures of a provocative nature.”
“Rise, Monsieur,” said the Queen. “I have listened patiently to all you have to say, and I fear that no useful purpose can be served by prolonging this conversation. You may rest assured that the King and I would never countenance a war unless we were forced to it; and that the preparations now going forward are no more than reasonable precautions. But we are allied to Spain, and if Spain decides to fight, France must fight too. It is unthinkable that we should do otherwise, for our honour is involved in it.”
With the bitter knowledge that he had failed, Roger bowed very low, and said quietly: “So be it, Your Majesty. I am distressed beyond words to find that I cannot count upon your help; and I can only beg that you will not think too hardly of me, should you learn that in the cause of peace I have sought other allies.”
Five minutes later he was out in the courtyard. The “other allies” to whom he had referred were the deputies of the Extreme Left. But he knew none of them except Barnave; to them he could not possibly produce Mr. Pitt’s Letter of Marque, and even if he got in touch with them he did not feel that either he or they could do very much to influence the situation. The idea was the slenderest of forlorn hopes, and he had been stung into his last words to the Queen owing only to his anger at her blindness, in refusing to see that the best hope of averting war lay in France refraining from further warlike measures.
As he stood on the steps of the court endeavouring to decide on his next move, a coach drove up. The footmen jumped down from the box and opened its door. A lady got out. They were face to face. He found himself staring at Isabella.
When he had decided in Aranjuez to come to Paris he had realised with considerable misgivings that he might meet her again there. But he could not allow that to weigh with him in the scales against the possibility of still being able to prevent a war. Paris was a large city, he had counted on securing an audience with the Queen within a week, and it had seemed then that once he had obtained her answer there would be nothing further to detain him in France; so he had felt reasonably confident that he would escape further entanglement with the lovely Condesa who had once meant so much to him. Now, Fate had brought them together yet again.
“Rojé!” her glad cry rang through the court. “When did you reach Paris? How clever of you to guess that I should not waste an hour before coming to the Tuileries! But to find you here waiting for me! Oh, Rojé, I am overcome with joy! I … I …” Seizing his hands she burst into tears.
Her assumption that he had come hot-foot to Paris for the sole purpose of reuniting with her there was so transparently obvious that he had not the heart to undeceive her, and he took refuge in garbled half-truths mingled with white lies.
“I got here yesterday, thinking you must have already arrived. Today business brought me to the Palace; but I should have come here in any case, as the best place to get news of you. In that I was disappointed, and I could not imagine why you had not yet been to make your service to the Queen. I did my utmost to catch up with you, and ’tis now evident that I must have passed you on the road.”
“No matter,” she sobbed happily. “No matter; we are together again, and ’twill be easy here for us to slip away so that we may be so always.”
He swallowed hard, then muttered: “Hush! Have a care of what you say; and control yourself, I beg. Your servants are listening.”
She shook her head. “We need take no heed of them. They are not from the Spanish Embassy, but only hired men. Diego is there, and the Lady Georgina and her father with him. But I went straight to the Carmelites. The Mother Superior is an old friend of mine, and I knew that I could count on her to give me refuge.”
“Refuge?” repeated Roger. “But why, having passed a month with your husband on th
e road, should you feel this sudden need of it?”
“While on the road I was safe; now I am once more in mortal danger. But I must not linger. Her Majesty is expecting me. And I cannot ask you to come to me this evening, for no visitors are allowed in the Convent after sundown. Come to me at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning at the Carmelites. Then we can make our plans.”
In a daze, Roger kissed her hand and watched her enter the Palace. Then he slowly turned away, walked back to La Belle Étoile, mechanically ate a solitary evening meal and went early to bed.
For a long time he lay there staring up at the ceiling. He recalled another occasion when he had lain in bed thinking about Isabella. That had been twelve and a half months ago, at a less comfortable inn, near Les Gobelins, on the far side of the Seine. He was then about to set out for Florence with Madame Marie Antoinette’s letter, and he had barely made the acquaintance of the dark-browed Señorita d’Aranda.
How much had happened since! Then, the States General had not even met. Lettres de cachet were still issued for the imprisonment of people during His Majesty’s pleasure; and there still existed a Bastille in which to confine them. The de Polignacs, the de Coignys; their Highnesses d’Artois, de Condé, de Conti, and a host of others had still danced and gambled in the splendid salons of Versailles. The treacherous Duc d’Orléans had been the idol of the Paris mob; and none but a few rough seamen and Red Indians even knew of the existence of a place called Nootka Sound.
Roger had never then been to Avignon, Marseilles, Leghorn, Florence, Naples, Lisbon, Madrid or Aranjuez; and he recalled speculating on whether, had Isabella been remaining at the Court of France, and they had entered on an affaire, he would have been able to make her his mistress. He had been inclined to think it most unlikely, because he believed her to be a serious, intense girl who, when she gave herself, would do so with great passion, but would bring herself to it only with a man with whom she hoped to share a lifelong love. Now he knew.
The Rising Storm Page 59