The Launching of Roger Brook

by Dennis Wheatley

  From four to seven he slept soundly, and was roused only by his petit déjeuner being brought to him. When he had dressed he sought out Aldegonde and insisted on the major-domo taking him round the servants’ quarters. He found that fifteen of the younger members of the staff were down with the sickness, but that several of the older servants, who had already had the disease, were tending them with care. Appropriately enough, he thought cynically, these people are willing to look after one another, but they are quite content to leave their master’s daughter in the hands of a besotted old mid-wife.

  Relieved of further worry about the sick servants he went up to see Athénaïs. She was awake; but immediately he came in she turned her back on him, so he refrained from speaking to her. To Mere Sufflot he said: ‘You can doze now if you wish, as I shall be coming in during the morning to keep the fire going.’ He then went down to the library and waited impatiently for the doctor.

  It was half-past eleven before Dr. Gonnet, who had ridden ten miles from Montfort, put in an appearance; and when he did Roger was not impressed by him. He was old, not without shrewd common sense, but a country practitioner who made no secret of the fact that he eked out an existence by attending on the peasantry, and had little leisure to keep abreast with the latest discoveries in medicine. He reported that Athénaïs was progressing favourably, approved Roger’s measures for making her more comfortable, but shook his head dubiously over the open windows.

  Immediately he had gone Roger went out to the stables in search of Chenou. They greeted one another with their old friendliness and the chief huntsman said feelingly:

  ‘Thank God you are come to us, Monsieur Breuc. We were in a pretty pickle here, and badly needed someone to take charge inside the house. I would have myself but I was loath to trespass on Monsieur Aldegonde’s province. If there is any way in which I can help you have but to name it.’

  ‘Indeed there is,’ replied Roger quickly. ‘I want you to ride into Rennes at once; but before you go give orders for a coach to follow you. When you reach Rennes go to Maître Léger and ask him to recommend the best doctor in the city. Seek out the doctor and offer him any price you like to accompany you back here and remain as resident physician until Mademoiselle Athénaïs is well again. Then go to the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy and see the Superior. Say that you come on behalf of Monseigneur and ask her to furnish you with her two most competent nursing Sisters. Bring the doctor and the nuns back in the coach, and do your damnedest to have them here by nightfall.’

  ‘It shall be done, Monsieur; or I will eat my own beard,’ declared Chenou, and he began to shout for his grooms and stableboys.

  During the remainder of the day Roger personally supervised the wants of Athénaïs. She addressed no word to him and he refrained from any approach to her. At ten o’clock that night Chenou returned from his forty-mile trip into Rennes and back, bringing a youngish doctor named Hollier and two Sisters of Mercy. Roger sent Mere Sufflot packing with a louis and installed Athénaïs’s new attendants. Then he went to bed and slept like a log.

  Next day he had all the sick servants moved from their own stuffy quarters to the ballroom of the château, and having turned it into a hospital ward, placed Dr. Hollier in charge. He then wrote to the Marquis, giving him a full account of the state of affairs at Bécherel, and suggesting that he should remain there until Athénaïs was fully recovered.

  The days that followed left him anxious and now a little uncertain of himself. He did not feel justified in any longer going to Athénaïs’s room, but waited impatiently each morning for Dr. Hollier’s bulletin about her spots. Most days he rode an hour or two with Chenou, and spent the rest of the time with Madame Marie-Angé; reading the novels of Madame de Villedieu to her, these light romances having been her favourites in her youth.

  The motherly old soul’s leg and hip were gradually mending and, as her pain lessened, she became more alert to what was going on in the household. It was her idea that when Athénaïs was well enough to travel, instead of going to Paris for the winter, she should go to her aunt’s château at St. Brieuc, and quietly recuperate there in the good sea air.

  Twelve days after his arrival at Bécherel Roger received a reply to his letter to the Marquis. In effect it said little more than: ‘I approve the measures you have taken regarding my daughter, and you have my full authority to carry out any other measures you may think requisite to her wellbeing. However, now that she is in good hands there seems no reason why you should linger unduly at Bécherel, so the sooner you return to Paris with the Domaine de St. Hilaire documents, the better.’

  There was no message for Athénaïs, no indication that the stony heart of the Marquis had been touched by his young daughter’s affliction; he still appeared to be entirely wrapped up in his own concerns. In disgust Roger stuffed the missive into his pocket and forgot it.

  A week later he received another letter from M. de Rochambeau, this time by personal courier. It said:

  To my great annoyance I have returned to Paris to find you still absent. Why is this? Paintendre is a fool who understands nothing of my affairs. Get to horse at once, and rejoin me here at the earliest possible moment.

  Again there was no inquiry as to how Athénaïs was progressing, let alone as to the health of his servants. Yet Roger knew that if he wished to keep his job he must obey the summons without delay. He sat down and wrote a note to Athénaïs, which ran:

  Mademoiselle, I have received your father’s command to return immediately to Paris. Having followed the progress of your illness through Dr. Hollier I am greatly rejoiced to know that you are near recovered. I should count it a great favour if you would permit me to take leave of you before my departure.

  Five minutes later he received a verbal reply by the footman who had taken up his note. The man bowed to him and said: ‘Monsieur, Mademoiselle desires you to wait upon her after your evening meal.’

  The Marquis’s courier had not arrived until after midday and, for the sake of reaching Paris a few hours earlier, Roger had no intention of forgoing the interview that Athénaïs had granted him. However, he had arranged with Chenou to have a coach ready for him at dawn the following morning, and had the great iron chest containing the documents carried down to the front hall in readiness for loading. Early in the evening he dressed himself in his best suit, which he had brought with him, arranged his hair with care and put a beauty patch on his left cheek. When he looked at himself in the mirror he was satisfied that not even the Abbé de Périgord could have surpassed him in his new rôle of a fashionable exquisite.

  After he had supped he went upstairs with a beating heart. He felt reasonably confident that Athénaïs would not have consented to see him unless she intended to thank him for the part he had played in bringing order out of chaos at the château; but, whether her thanks would be purely formal, or couched in the warmer note of renewed friendship, yet remained to be seen.

  One of the Sisters of Mercy admitted him to the room. As he came round the corner of the screen he saw that Athénaïs was sitting up in bed with her hair properly dressed, and that the last traces of her sores had completely disappeared under a dusting of rouge and powder.

  For a moment she did not look at him, but addressed the nun: ‘Sister Angelique, I have business to discuss with my father’s secretary. While we are talking you would, no doubt, like to give your mind to your devotions. Pray avail yourself of my oratory.’

  Without a word the nun obediently crossed the room, and disappeared behind a curtain that concealed an alcove fitted up as a small private chapel. While she knelt there she was still, theoretically, in the room and chaperoning Athénaïs; but for all practical purposes, Roger was now alone with his divinity.

  He thought that she had never looked more beautiful as she turned her big blue eyes on him, and said:

  ‘Monsieur; on learning this afternoon that orders had come for you to return to Paris, I took the opportunity to write to my father. Please convey my missive to
him immediately on your arrival.’

  With a bow Roger took the letter that she held out to him. He had counted more than he knew on being restored to her favour before he left Bécherel; but now it seemed that she had delayed his departure only in order to write this letter, and he was bitterly disappointed.

  ‘It occurred to me,’ she went on, ‘that you have long outstayed the purpose of your original mission to Bécherel, and I thought that my father should be informed of the reason for that. Dr. Hollier has told me of all that you have done to restore order and health among the servants here, and we all owe you our gratitude.’

  He bowed again. ‘Mademoiselle, I could do no less; and as Monseigneur is angry with me for having delayed so long your letter will prove a boon in modifying his displeasure.’

  ‘I trust so.’ She fiddled with the ribbons of her bed-jacket, and added a little uncertainly: ‘You wished to say something to me before your departure?’

  ‘Only, Mademoiselle, how happy I am that you are now recovered from your illness and need only rest to restore your full health again.’

  ‘Have you no more to say than that?’

  ‘Now that I have seen you, I would add my thanks to God for having preserved your beauty.’

  Again her words came a little uncertainly: ‘Under His mercy, Monsieur, I owe that to you. And, since you show no mind to broach a matter that concerns us both, ’tis for me to do so.’

  His pulses began to race as she lowered her eyes and went on, almost in a whisper. ‘That night when you arrived here I did a terrible thing; and ’tis generous of you, now that I am well, to spare me your reproaches. By making you kiss me at the height of my fever ’tis a miracle that I did not give you the sickness.’

  ‘’Twas my fault,’ he said gently, almost overcome by her sudden display of feeling. ‘I should have waited a more fitting occasion to ask your forgiveness for what had passed before. You were half delirious and knew not what you did. I pray you think no more of it.’

  ‘But I must. I knew then that you really loved me, and that I ill deserved it from having been so harsh and wicked towards you.’

  ‘Please!’ he begged, hardly daring to look at her. But she raised her eyes and her words came more firmly:

  ‘There is only one way in which I can make amends. To wipe away the memory of those other kisses you may, as it please you, kiss me again now.’

  He was trembling now. Stepping forward he took one of her hands in his and placed his other arm about her shoulders. Stooping above her he took a long breath and, as she raised her face to his, he whispered: ‘Nay, I’ll not do it to pleasure myself alone, but only if you wish it also.’

  ‘Rojé I do!’ she cried suddenly: and flinging her soft arms round his neck she drew his mouth down to hers.

  For a space they clung together, then she began to cry softly.

  ‘My loveliness,’ he murmured, drawing away a little. ‘Why do’st thou weep?’

  ‘Because—because I am so happy,’ she sobbed, ‘yet, at the same time, so sad.’

  ‘What troubles thee, my sweet Princess?’

  Choking back her tears she smiled fondly up at him. ‘’Tis that I could be thy Princess. Yet, far as thou hast already travelled on the road to fortune, dear miller’s youngest son, there can be no hope of that.’

  Thou, thou lovest me then? ‘he breathed.

  She nodded. ‘With all my heart. ’Twas naught but stupid pride that stayed me from confessing it before. For years I have built romance about thee, and thought of thee always as my perfect knight.’

  Again they kissed, not once but a score of times; and for the next half hour murmured only sweet endearments to one another.

  At length Athénaïs placed her hands upon his shoulders and put him gently from her. ‘’Tis time for thee to leave me,’ she said, with a sigh, ‘or Sister Angelique’s curiosity will overcome her piety.’

  ‘So soon,’ he protested. ‘Nay, she will continue with her devotions for a while yet, and there are still a thousand things that I would say to thee.’

  ‘And I to thee. But lest she comes upon us suddenly we must now be circumspect, and thou hadst best sit there in that chair, as though we were in truth discussing business.’

  As she began to tidy herself and he took the chair, he said: ‘Tell me, beloved, what are your plans; and when can I hope to see you again?’

  ‘’Twill be the new year now before I come to Paris,’ she replied. ‘In that letter to my father I have asked his consent to travel, when I am well enough, to my aunt’s château at St. Brieuc. ’Twas Madame Marie-Angé’s idea. She put it in one of the little notes she sends me each day. Though ’tis winter the sea air there will aid my convalescence and ’tis certain my father will agree.’

  ‘And when you reach Paris, what then? Think you we will ever find an opportunity to be alone together?’

  ‘Oh, I trust so! Now that I am seventeen my father will, I doubt not, arrange some suitable marriage for me. But ’tis hardly likely that I shall be married before the summer; and in the meantime we shall be living under the same roof.’

  Roger sighed. ‘The prospect of your marriage fills me with dismay. Fate has been cruel indeed to separate us by so many barriers.’

  She shook her head and smiled sweetly. ‘Think not on that, I beg; for no profit can come to either of us from railing at a decree which was ordained by God. I am overjoyed that you should have won my father’s confidence and prospered so; but your lack of lands and quarterings renders any question of marriage between us utterly impossible.’

  Leaning forward and taking her hand again, Roger said: ‘Listen, dear love. ’Tis true that I have no lands, and no money other than that which your father gives me; but at least I am of gentle birth and have the right to bear arms. I would have told you of this before but I have had little opportunity and, until this evening, I feared that you might disbelieve me.’

  While she listened, thrilled with excitement, he then disclosed to her that he was English and how it was that he had come both to leave his own country and, at their first meeting, conceal the truth about himself from her.

  ‘How wondrous strange,’ she murmured, when he had done. ‘Just to think ’twas that absurd doll of mine which caused you to conceal your true identity for so long. And ’tis more like a fairy tale than ever that my miller’s youngest son should transpire to be a Chevalier.’

  Although he knew within himself that he was on hopeless ground, the brightness of her eyes encouraged him to say: ‘Think you that if I disclosed the truth to your father he could be brought to consider me as a suitor to your hand? ’Twould mean our waiting for some years yet, but if he’d agree and give me his countenance I might, by that time, have made enough money to purchase an estate.’

  ‘Nay, Rojé, nay,’ she said sadly. ‘Put such thoughts from your mind, I beg. My father would never consent to have me unmarried for so long. Besides, he will require me to marry into one of the best families in France; so that even if, by some miracle, the King made you a Count tomorrow, he would still not consider you a suitable husband for me. There is, too, another thing. All Englishmen are Protestants, are they not?’

  ‘Not all, but the vast majority; and I am one. I visited Saint Mélaine only to see you; and have gone to other Catholic churches while in France simply so that I should not be thought irreligious.’

  ‘Would you be willing to become a Catholic?’

  Her question was one that had never even occurred to him and with his upbringing, such a step seemed a terrible one to take. ‘I—I’ve never thought about it,’ he stammered. ‘But I fear I’d be very loath to change my religion.’

  ‘There, you see!’ she squeezed his hand. ‘And, my father apart, I could never bring myself to wed a heretic. ’Twas decreed in heaven that we should never marry, so ’tis best that we should resign ourselves to that.’

  ‘Though it breaks my heart, I must confess you right,’ he murmured sadly. ‘Yet ’tis more than I can bear,
to think of you married to another.’

  They were silent for a moment then she said softly: ‘’Tis time you left me. Kiss me again before you go and think not too gloomily upon the future. Such marriages as mine will be are not of the heart but of convention, and entered into only for the uniting of two great families. What does it matter who I marry so long as you know that my heart is yours and that ’tis you I love.’

  19

  The Birthday Party

  On Roger’s arrival in Paris, M. de Rochambeau gave only a moment to Athénaïs’s letter. Having read it quickly through he remarked that the delay in Roger’s return appeared to have been fully justified, and ordered him to draft a reply to the effect that, under Chenou’s escort, Mademoiselle should proceed to her aunt’s at St. Brieuc as soon as she felt well enough to do so. He then plunged into current business.

  It was soon clear that the Marquis, having failed in his attempt to block the Anglo-French commercial treaty, had now turned his attention to the United Provinces, and that during the past month, he had informed himself in great detail as to the affairs of that troubled country; so Roger got down to mastering such information on the subject as was at his disposal.

  He knew already that it was the French influence with the Republican party that had dragged the Dutch into the war against England in 1780, and that although the war had cost the Dutchmen dear it had done a great deal to strengthen anti-British feeling. French intervention in the dispute over the opening of the Scheldt had saved the Dutch from having to engage in a desperate struggle against Austria, and this had been followed immediately by a Franco-Dutch alliance, which, during the past year, had done much to further strengthen the good will between the two nations to the detriment of Britain.

  Meanwhile, with the rise of French influence, the situation of the Stadtholder had become even more precarious. His mother had been an English Princess and his wife, now that Frederick the Great was dead, was the sister of the new King of Prussia, Frederick-William II; but neither power was in a position to sway the councils of his unruly States-General in his favour. Fourteen months before, he had been driven from The Hague and forced to take refuge in Gelderland, the only one of his provinces still loyal to him, and ever since the country had been in a state of increasing unrest.