By the time he had finished eating he was feeling sleepy, and his thoughts began to wander a little over the incredible suspense and excitement to which he had been subjected during the past day. With a start, he suddenly recalled the letter from Georgina that he had found in his cache at La Belle Étoile early that morning. Wide awake again now, he pulled it from his pocket.
On its back, evidently with the same pen she had used to write her last letter, Athénaïs had scrawled, Forgive me, Roger, for keeping this from you. It was brought over in March by a member of the League, and seeing it to be in a woman’s hand I opened it. I could not bear the thought that news of your wife should come between us.
In the last paragraph of Athénaïs’s letter she had urged him to forgive his wife. As he had not told her of Amanda’s infidelity the passage had vaguely puzzled him, but at the time he had been too distraught to think very much about it. Evidently this explained how she had learned that his marriage was on the point of breaking up.
Taking the letter from its envelope, Roger read it through. Georgina had discussed matters very thoroughly with Amanda. She counted herself fully justified in what she had done. Her attitude was that she had never received his letter by Dan, and that even had she done so her conduct would have been no more than tit for tat. Further, she pointed out that Roger had been abroad a great while and that, envisaging such absences before they married, they had agreed to count themselves free at such times if they wished. As to malicious intent, she was amazed that he could think so ill of her. It was, indeed, for the very purpose of protecting his name that she had removed to Lymington. Had she remained at Richmond, undesirable comment upon de Batz’s visits to her would certainly have been made; but Lymington being the headquarters of the French émigrés, he passed there as one of the crowd. Lady Atkyns had been living in the house and provided admirable chaperonage for her as a grass widow, and they had entertained a score of French exiles there, both ladies and gentlemen, almost constantly. De Batz, she said, was intelligent and discreet; they had many interests in common and he had provided her with a most pleasant diversion, but meant no more to her than that. Finally, she took a firm stand on the point that she required no forgiveness. If Roger wished to resume their life where it had been broken off, that would make her truly happy; but it must be on their original understanding that, when he went abroad for long periods, they would both be free to indulge in transitory affairs should they feel so inclined.
Roger laid the letter down with a sigh. It was a considerable relief to him that he would still be able to visit his old home without fear of being the object of malicious laughter, and he felt that he owed Amanda an apology for ever having thought that she would place him deliberately in such a situation. He realised now what it was that had so warped his judgment in the whole unhappy business. Had they stuck to their original bargain neither of them would have suffered from sore hearts. It was their having unconsciously gone back on it and, unlike most of their contemporaries, enjoyed two years of faithfulness and perfect amity. Yet he would not have had that otherwise, as it would always be a mental treasure to recall with joy. It was the sort of experience which would bind a couple together later in life, when their blood had cooled a little and their minds dominated their matter, so that they had come to realise the folly of dissipating themselves in pursuit of things that could have no permanent value. All the same, he was not prepared to crawl back to Amanda. . . .
He had got only so far in his ruminations when the iron door to the stairway swung open and the tall figure of Joseph Fouché appeared. Roger hastily thrust the letter into his pocket and stood up.
“Good evening, Citizen,” Fouché said without looking at him. “I have come to enquire about the progress of your investigations into little Capet’s disappearance.”
“I fail to understand you, Citizen,” Roger replied in apparent surprise, but his pulses began to quicken in alarm.
“I think you do.” Fouché’s voice was soft and insinuating. “This morning, the moment you set eyes on our present prisoner you realised that he was a substitute. Yet you did not share your discovery with me. Instead, on the excuse of reporting to Barras, you dashed off to make enquires at Maisons-Alfort.”
“What of it?” Roger shrugged; “I am not accountable to you for my actions. It crossed my mind that Robespierre might have made off with the little Capet.”
“Quite so; and finding he had not, this afternoon you decided to devote your attention to the Simons.”
“It seems that you have been following me!” Roger now allowed his voice to show a hint of anger. “But what if I have done as you say? It is of the first importance that we should recover the missing child.”
Fouché’s corpse-like face remained quite expressionless. “Indeed it is, Citizen. But is that your business? And is Barras aware that you deserted your post here for above two hours?”
“What the hell has all this to do with you?” Roger burst out.
“A lot!” Fouché’s tone suddenly became sharp. “As a member of the Convention, I am entitled to question your intentions. Just now I learnt that on your return here you spent a long time examining the Temple book, then put the prisoner Tison through a private investigation. Why did you do that?”
“Because it is obvious that a commission will be appointed to go into the whole matter; and having nothing to do here I thought to save them time by making some preliminary investigations.”
“I do not believe you; I believe that the frantic efforts you have been making all day to trace little Capet were inspired by a private motive. I believe that had you found him, it was your intention——”
Suddenly Fouché broke off. For once his shifty, fish-like eyes had ceased to flicker and had come to rest. Roger followed his glance and saw that they were riveted on the table. The sight of the thing they were now both staring at made his heart contract with dismay. It was the envelope of Georgina’s letter; and it was not addressed to Citizen Breuc, but to Monsieur Brook.
Next second, Fouché’s voice came in a snarl, “At last I recall where we met! You are the English Admiral’s son! So you did mean to steal little Capet!”
As he spoke, he sprang backwards and pulled a small pistol from his pocket. Levelling it at Roger, he cried:
“Hands up, you accursed spy!”
CHAPTER XXIX
ROGER BROOK VERSUS THE FRENCH REPUBLIC
As Fouché’s dull eyes lit with triumph and he sprang away, Roger instinctively took a pace forward. There was still barely four feet between them, and less still from the point of the pistol to Roger’s heart.
His brain was working with lightning speed. On the verge of victory he was faced with utter destruction. It was all or nothing. Once Fouché had got the upper hand there could be no escape. The loss of a split second would mean the loss of life and fortune. Before Fouché had time to cock the weapon, Roger hurled himself upon him.
At the same instant Fouché took another pace back, but the pistol was knocked from his outstretched hand. Grabbing at one another, they closed. Fouché was taller than Roger and his lean figure concealed surprising strength. He locked his arms round Roger’s middle and pressed his chin down into his left shoulder. In vain Roger strove to force his enemy’s head up and get a grip on his throat. For thirty seconds, sixty seconds, ninety seconds, their feet planted firmly, they strove silently for mastery.
The strain on the small of Roger’s back became so frightful that he thought his spinal column would snap. Frantically he beat at the sides of Fouché’s head with his fists; but the agony increased to such a degree that he could bear it no longer. With a groan he let his knees buckle and went over backwards.
The back of his head struck the floor heavily. A blinding pain seared through it. At the same second, but as though at a great distance, he heard Fouché give a howl of agony. All the strength seemed to seep from Roger’s limbs; but Fouché, too, was temporarily disabled. As they fell his right wrist had been twisted
violently beneath Roger’s body. With a groan he pulled it out, knowing now that, crippled, he would not be able finally to overcome Roger. Instantly his mind reverted to his fallen pistol. Even if, left-handed, he missed with it, the sound of the shot would rouse the guard on the floor below. Twisting over, he wriggled swiftly towards the weapon.
Still half dazed, Roger sat up. For a moment his eyes refused to focus; then he saw Fouché’s intention. With a great effort he flung himself forward, sprawling over Fouché and checking his progress. Turning on his side, Fouché kicked out savagely, but Roger got in a blow under his chin. His head jerked up and he rolled over on his back. Roger smashed his fist down into his enemy’s stomach. Fouché’s knees lifted as he doubled up with pain. Seizing his advantage, Roger sprang upon him and got both hands round his throat. In vain Fouché strove to claw Roger’s hands away. His eyes began to bulge from his head; gradually his kicking and writhing grew weaker. At last he lay still, unconscious.
Gasping, Roger stumbled to his feet and wiped the sweat from his face. As he fought to get his breath back he listened anxiously for sounds of people approaching; but the fight had been short and sharp, and it seemed that no one below had heard it. His head was paining him frightfully, but he forced himself to think. Gone were his plans for a long night’s sleep. At this vital eleventh hour Fouché had recognised him. It was now Roger Brook versus the French Republic. He must not waste a second if he were to escape from France alive.
Pulling himself together, he tied Fouché’s ankles with his sash and his wrists with his cravat, then gagged him with a table napkin. Unlocking the door of the prisoner’s room, he dragged his still unconscious enemy inside and locked him in there. With sudden elation he realised that he had not yet returned the turnkey’s bunch of keys, so before going downstairs he was able to lock behind him the iron door to the ante-room.
At the bottom of the stairs he opened the door of the Commissioners’ room and saw that they, and the officers of the guard, were about to sit down to supper. Without entering the room he told them that Citizen Representative Fouché was going to spend the night with him upstairs, and that as they had both been up for many hours they did not wish to be disturbed until nine o’clock next morning. He then slipped out into the garden, crossed it, and let himself out of the postern door.
Twenty minutes’ quick walk brought him to La Belle Étoile. It had only just gone nine o’clock, and the main taproom of the hostelry was crammed with people. Money had never been so scarce in Paris, but that night everybody had managed to find a few francs with which to drink damnation to Robespierre. From a doorway in the hall Roger managed to attract Maître Blanchard’s attention, and the landlord came out to him. He told his old friend that he had at last been unmasked; so had to leave Paris with the utmost urgency and wanted the best horse in his stables. Blanchard took him out to the yard, selected a bay mare and helped him saddle up. Roger then insisted that he should accept a hundred louis for the animal, and added that for the friendship of himself and his wife the crown jewels of France could not be a sufficient price.
Soon after ten o’clock Roger was stabling his mount at Passy. He would have liked to ride through the night, but knew that it would be penny wise, pound foolish, to attempt it. He would have fallen asleep in the saddle and come to grief on the roadside. The level-headedness and courage which now decided him to snatch a few hours’ sleep, instead of making a panicky attempt to race as far as possible from the area of danger, was one of the secrets of his success as a secret agent; and now, quite unconsciously, he followed this natural prompting of his nature.
The Velots were up. They too were celebrating. Marie had cooked a special supper, after which they were enjoying, as they knew would be M. de Talleyrand’s wish, a bottle of his best Y’Quem. They begged Roger to do them the honour of joining them, which he did willingly to the extent of one small glass, but told them that he must get some sleep, then make the dust of the French roads fly beneath his horse’s hooves. To this faithful couple he gave 200 louis, which he thought should keep them going until things had quietened down sufficiently for de Talleyrand to return.
At three o’clock in the morning old Antoine called him; by half-past he was mounted and on his way. Owing to the orders he had given at the Temple no one would attempt to enter the second floor of the tower until nine. When there was no response to the guards’ knocking it would take them at least two hours to prise the iron door off its hinges, and Fouché would need another hour before he could possibly be ready to leave Paris. That gave Roger an eight-hour start, but he knew that once the hunt was up it would be fast and inexorable; and he was under no illusion that his enemy would not know in which direction he had gone. The moment Fouché was free he would go down to Tison and make him repeat everything said to him and by him the previous evening; then Fouché would take express post for Divonne, and travel night and day. Roger, too, meant to travel post for the latter stages of his journey, as he dared not lose even an hour of his lead in sleep; but for as long as he could keep the saddle horseback would be faster, and he hoped to have increased his lead to eleven or twelve hours by that night.
It was still dark when he passed through Corbeil. At Melun he ate a swift breakfast then rode on through the forest of Fontainebleau. At Sens he dined. By the time he reached Joigny he was very tired and his mare was flagging. The next stretch on to Auxerre was agony, but he entered the town at six o’clock, having covered a hundred and five miles in under fifteen hours.
At Auxerre he sold his mare to the postmaster and hired a light four-horse coach. As it clattered out of the town he stretched his aching limbs and, in spite of the bumping, soon fell into an exhausted sleep.
He was woken by being flung violently sideways, and heard the crash of shattered glass. Crawling out, he found to his fury that through careless driving the near fore-wheel of the coach had caught an outcrop of jutting rock on the roadside and been wrenched off. Still worse, the fore-axle had broken under the shock.
It was pitch dark and they were in the middle of a forest. His postillions told him that Lucy le Bois was the nearest village and that it lay about two miles behind them. He could not bear the thought of going back and there was only an off-chance of securing another vehicle there; so he decided to take one of the saddle horses and ride on to Avallon. The postillions protested, but he used his authority as a Commissar and cursed them into silence.
The accident to the coach had occurred about half-past ten. An hour’s ride should have brought him into Avallon. By midnight there was still no sign of the town, and he realised with dismay that in the darkness he must have lost his way. The road was little better than a track, and when he came to another that crossed it, using the stars as a guide, he turned northward. Two miles further on it curved away to the west; after another mile he felt sure he had gone wrong again, and took another that branched off it. By one o’clock in the morning he knew that he was hopelessly lost.
Hour after hour he kicked the post-horse into a trot along bridle-paths and down forest glades. He could have wept with rage and desperation, but it was not until half an hour after dawn that he came upon a solitary farm at which he could enquire. There, he learnt that he was further from Avallon than he had been when the coach had broken down. His mount was spent and the people at the farm had no riding horse they could sell him. It was nine o’clock before, utterly exhausted, he entered Avallon at a sorry amble.
While another light coach was being prepared for him, he drank a pint of wine and munched a piece of cake. Then he climbed into the vehicle, collapsed on its back seat as it drove out of the yard, and slept like a log.
He did not wake until well into the afternoon. His first thought was to turn and peer out of the little window at the back of the coach. His terrible misadventure the previous night had cost him ten hours, and that was the whole of the lead he had dared count upon. At the most Fouché could not be more than an hour behind him. He had promised his postillions treble pa
y for maximum speed, but Fouché too would make his men drive like Jehu in the hope of yet snatching the stupendous prize.
Roger reached Châlons at nine in the evening. He had not eaten all day, but did not now dare to stop for a proper meal. Taking food and wine into the coach with him he set off again, now to the eastward, as a great detour had to be made to pass to the north of the Jura mountains. The country here was much more hilly and the going slower; but all night they jogged on, changing horses every few hours while Roger slept fitfully.
At eight in the morning the coach clattered into Lons-le-Saunier. From there the road ran north for twenty miles to Poligny, whence by a hairpin bend one could come south by east on the far side of the mountains down another stretch of forty miles to Divonne; but there were by-ways across the mountains which would reduce the distance by a third; so Roger decided to transfer from the coach to a horse. In addition to the animal he bought from the landlord of the inn a good map, and fortified himself with a substantial breakfast before setting off. By ten he was out of the town, and heading up the first gradient into the foothills of the Jura.
Half an hour later, on breasting the summit of the slope, he looked back. As he had feared might be the case, a little cloud of dust just beyond the town was being thrown up by a fast-driven coach, approaching along the flat road by which he had entered it. In such sparsely populated districts of France as this, now that the wealthy were dead or had fled abroad, such conveyances were rarely to be seen; so it could hardly be anyone other than Fouché. At the inn he would learn that his quarry had taken to horse; so he would follow suit. He would not follow alone, either. Now that he was on the last lap of the chase, he would order out a troop of hussars or gendarmes from the local barracks. Grimly Roger turned away and rode on up into the mountains.
The Man who Killed the King Page 68