The Launching of Roger Brook

by Dennis Wheatley

  As he reached it a sudden thought struck him. It was now too late to go up to his room and tidy himself before the meeting, as he had planned, and, although he could do that downstairs, he could not appear before the Marquis wearing a sword. Swiftly unbuckling his weapon he leant it against the stonework in a dark corner of the porch, where it would be easy for him to reclaim it on his way out.

  On his entering the hall the two footmen on duty exclaimed in dismay at the blood on his face, but with a muttered word to them that his injury was nothing to worry about, he dived into the powder-closet. Having washed his face and hands and tidied his hair he called to one of the men to brush the dust off his clothes, then dashed upstairs.

  In his office he found his assistant in a state of excited apprehension on his behalf. The Marquis had been furious at Roger’s disappearance and had ordered Paintendre to prepare the conference table but refused his offer to take notes.

  As the easiest explanation for his lateness, the abrasion on his forehead and the rip in the shoulder of his coat where de Caylus’s sword had torn it, Roger said abruptly that he had been set upon by footpads, then asked: ‘Are they all inside? How long have they been assembled?’

  ‘No more than a quarter of an hour,’ Paintendre replied. ‘Most of them were here and arguing well before ten, but the Archbishop of Toulouse was a little late.’

  That the new Prime Minister had kept the appointment was all Roger wished to know. Taking a piece of paper he hastily scrawled upon it.

  Monseigneur,

  My service and most humble apologies for such inconvenience as my absence may have caused you. I had the misfortune to be attacked by footpads and was rendered incapable of returning to attend you earlier.

  He would not have bothered, but for a sudden fear that unless he offered some explanation the Marquis might, in a fit of cold anger, send him from the room as soon as he appeared. With the paper in his hand he opened the door of the council chamber as noiselessly as he could, slipped quietly inside, and gave a swift look round.

  The fifteen nobles who had attended the previous afternoon’s gathering were all present and with them, seated on the Marquis’s right, was Loménie de Brienne, Archbishop of Toulouse, now Prime Minister of France. The prelate was wearing the violet robes of his ecclesiastical dignity and, with one alabaster hand, was toying with a great diamond and sapphire cross suspended from his neck by a satin ribbon.

  As Roger entered de Castries was giving details of the naval preparations at Brest for the seizure of the Dutch ports. The Archbishop was listening to him attentively, but the Marquis was drawing figures on the wad of paper that lay before him and, looking up as the door opened, glowered at Roger. Tiptoeing round the big oval table Roger placed the note he had written by the Marquis’s hand, made a low bow and tiptoed away again towards his own little table beside the door.

  On sitting down he was conscious of a sudden wave of relief. It was the last time that he would ever make his ‘humble service’ to this frigid and heartless aristocrat. In another hour or two he would be his own master again, for a time at least; and, within a week, either free for good of this hateful subservience or occupying a condemned cell. Brushing the thought aside he gave all his attention to the meeting.

  Within a few minutes he realised that it was, so far, no more than a repetition of that held the previous day. Evidently de Rayneval and the Comte de Maillebois had already made their reports on the situation in the United Provinces, and now the Ministers were outlining the state of immediate readiness of the French armed forces to undertake a lightning stroke.

  As the phrases and arguments that he had heard before rolled smoothly from the tongues of de Breteuil, de Polignac and the rest, Roger’s mind began to wander. In vivid flashes he saw again the critical phases of the terrible combat in which he had so recently engaged. He recalled de Périgord’s cynical smile as he announced his intention of carrying the dead man’s mistress off to supper, and the Vicomte’s announcement that he meant to wait upon Athénaïs before setting out on his flight to Brittany. He wondered anxiously and sorrowfully what would become of Athénaïs, and if he would ever see her again. To his acute distress he had to admit to himself that it was most improbable, since nothing now could prevent her being immured in a convent, and, if he did succeed in escaping to England, he would never be able to return to France without imperilling his life.

  A full hour went by and the Archbishop was asking the opinion of the Foreign Secretary, who had not yet spoken. M. de Montmorin showed none of his hesitation of the previous afternoon but now came out openly on the side of the camarilla that had plotted for war.

  As Roger listened with half an ear he realised that the all-important decision would, at last, soon be taken, and that he must pull himself together. For the past half-hour he had been feeling completely exhausted. During his ride back to Paris the excitement of his victory and the urgency of getting to the meeting had prevented him from being fully conscious of his physical state. But since he had been sitting in the council chamber he had felt with increasing severity the strain he had been through. The duel alone had proved a most gruelling ordeal and in it he had sustained certain injuries, hardly noticed at the time, but now nagging at him. The blood from the cut on his shoulder had dried and his shirt was sticking to it, so that it hurt every time he moved; the place where de Caylus’s sword-hilt had struck him on the forehead had swollen into a big lump which throbbed dully.

  The Comte de Montmorin had hardly ceased speaking when the Marquis came in to the attack. At first his tone was restrained and as he arrayed his well-reasoned arguments Roger was trying to think what he must do when the meeting ended.

  The bulk of the money he had saved while in the service of M. de Rochambeau was in a separate bag, with the Marquis’s bullion, in the coffrer fort that lay in the office outside, and to it he had the key. As soon as the meeting was over and the Marquis had gone to his own apartments he must collect that, and, he reminded himself with Scottish carefulness, help himself to a further twenty louis that were due to him for the month of August that had just expired. Then he would slip downstairs, collect his sword, saddle the best horse in the stable, and so away.

  He felt that de la Tour d’Auvergne had been right in his contention that it would be morning before warrants were issued for their arrest, and he wondered if he dared risk attempting to see Athénaïs. The urge to give her what consolation he could, and the longing to hold her in his arms again, were almost overwhelming, but on several counts he decided most reluctantly against it.

  In such foreboding circumstances a final meeting, far from consoling Athénaïs, could only harrow her still further; and his own hope of safety lay in reaching one of the Channel ports before his description could be circulated in them, and all captains sailing for England instructed to detain him. To reach Athénaïs at all he would have to wait until the whole household was asleep, then make his way like a burglar to her bedroom. If he was discovered there her father might well kill her, and, even if he got away again undetected, to give several precious hours to such a project would almost certainly result in his own capture and death.

  The Marquis’s voice had risen and he was now speaking much more rapidly. Roger had never before seen him display such passion and forcefulness. His blue eyes flashing he leaned towards the Archbishop and hammered home his thesis. France was on the verge of irretrievable ruin and open anarchy. Only one thing could save the monarchy, the Church and the nobility. The people’s thoughts must be diverted from the hopeless tangle of internal affairs to sudden, unexpected and glorious triumphs beyond the frontiers. The lightning subjugation of the United Provinces would fill France’s empty coffers, and give her a breathing space to reorganise. Before the nation had time to consider internal grievances again the Dutch ports could be made the bases of a French Armada and the people worked up to a fever pitch of excitement at the prospect of fresh conquests. By next summer the invasion could be launched and the final
blow against England struck. The autumn of ’eighty-eight would see the power of perfidious Albion for ever broken and France rich, prosperous, unchallengeable, the Mistress of the Empire of the World.

  The Archbishop’s face remained calm and impassive. He continued to toy with his heavy jewelled cross and neither by word nor gesture gave the faintest indication as to if the Marquis’s impassioned harangue had made the least impression on him. Yet everyone in the room knew that he was a shallow, vain and intensely ambitious man. M. de Rochambeau was offering him a way of escape from innumerable difficulties with which it was far beyond his very limited capacities to deal. And, far more; for if this audacious and cunningly conceived plan succeeded he would go down to history as greater than Rosney, greater than Mazarin, greater than Colbert, greater even than Richelieu. He would be the most powerful Prime Minister that France had ever known and, if he wished, there would then be few obstacles to his ending his days upon the Papal throne. Could any vain, ambitious prelate possibly resist such a temptation?

  As the Marquis ceased speaking there fell a deathly silence in the room. No one moved a muscle and all eyes were riveted with fascinated expectation on the Archbishop’s pale face. Slowly he turned to M. de Rochambeau, and said:

  ‘Monsieur le Marquis, you are right. Only a bold course can now save France from hideous disaster. You have won me to your plan and I congratulate you upon it. I give my authority for M. de Montmorin to write a letter in the terms you suggest to the Dutch Republican leaders, pledging them the armed support of France in their rising against the Stadtholder.’

  Silence fell again for a second. The Marquis was pale as a ghost but his eyes flashed with triumph. Suddenly the others gave vent to their feelings. As the Archbishop stood up to leave the table they broke into a noisy uproar of jubilant congratulation. Fawning upon him and flattering him as the greatest statesman that France had known for a dozen generations they accompanied him downstairs, and for some ten minutes Roger was left alone.

  Since he knew that the Marquis and some of the others would return, as soon as they had seen the Archbishop to his coach, he remained where he was, standing by his table, now the prey of almost overwhelming emotions.

  The treacherous subjugation of the United Provinces by a coup d’état on the 10th of September—the first and all-important step in the plot that must lead to the destruction of Britain—was now inevitable, except for one slender possibility; and he alone, if fortune favoured him, had the power to give his country that chance. He was still convinced that if France was faced with immediate war with England and Prussia she would not dare to implement her promise to the Dutch Republicans. If the British Cabinet had news of what was afoot they still might hesitate to take the plunge and issue an instant ultimatum. If they did hesitate they would be lost. But before they even had a chance to take a decision they must be placed in full possession of the facts, and no one but himself was in a position to carry these facts across the Channel. It was now close on midnight of the 28th-29th August, so there were only twelve clear days before the mine was to be sprung. The Cabinet would need at least six days if effective counter-measures were to be taken to prevent the coup. That meant that he had six days in which to get to London—and by morning half the police in France would be hunting him for murder.

  He was still immersed in the terrible responsibility that had been thrust upon him when M. de Rochambeau came back into the room, accompanied by Messieurs de Montmorin and de Rayneval.

  ‘Now for the letter!’ said the Marquis eagerly. ‘While we take care of that you, de Rayneval, had best order your baggage to be carried downstairs and get into your travelling things. Not a moment must be lost in transmitting the despatch; and, lest the Archbishop weaken overnight, you must be well on your way to the Hague by morning. Then it will be too late for any last moment shilly-shallying to rob us of our triumph.’

  ‘You are right, Marquis!’ cried de Rayneval. ‘I’ll make my preparations with all speed and rejoin you here the instant I am done,’ and he hurried from the room.

  The Marquis glanced at Roger. ‘You have parchment there? Take down my words in a clear hand. Address the letter to His Excellency. Mynheer van Berkel, Pensionary of Amsterdam; for submission to Their High Mightinesses the States-General of the United Provinces, and all whom it may concern.’

  Roger tried his quill and wrote the superscription, then he took down the despatch as the Marquis dictated it. The document was short and to the point; a clear and unequivocal promise of armed support by France should this prove necessary for the establishment and maintenance of a new Dutch Republican Government in which for the future all sovereign powers of the United Provinces were to be vested.

  When they had done the Comte de Montmorin signed the letter and produced a big seal from a satin-lined box that he had brought with him. Roger fetched wax from his office and the document was duly sealed with the impress of the Foreign Minister to His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVI of France.

  It was now close on midnight. M. de Montmorin pleaded fatigue and, having congratulated the Marquis once more, took his departure, leaving M. de Rochambeau and Roger alone together.

  For all his iron self-discipline the Marquis could hardly contain his excitement, while he waited for M. de Rayneval to return and collect the letter. Pacing up and down with his hands clasped behind his back he muttered to Roger:

  ‘This is a great night, Breuc, a great night! You have been privileged to witness an historic occasion. For more than twelve months I have laboured tirelessly, and now, on the delivery of this despatch, I shall begin to reap my reward. This time next year you will see the real fruits of my work for France. ’Tis then that we shall witness the downfall of the avaricious, unscrupulous English. ’Tis then that their accursed island will at last be overwhelmed, and the Fleur-de-Lys of France fly unchallenged on every sea.’

  For a moment the veil of the Marquis’s aloof passivity was lifted and Roger could see the hatred and ambition seething in his brain. With a flash of intuition he realised that the vain, empty Archbishop must fall like corn before the scythe of the reaper in front of this imperialistic juggernaut. It was not Loménie de Brienne who, if this conspiracy of conquest succeeded, would be the all-powerful Prime Minister of a Europe under the heel of France, or de Breteuil, or de Castries, or de Polignac; it would be the Marechal Duc de Rochambeau.

  Suddenly there was a commotion outside in the office. Both Roger and the Marquis turned towards the door. It was flung violently open and Count Lucien staggered in.

  As his glance fell on Roger he let out a yell of mingled surprise and rage.

  ‘Mort du diable! To find you here was beyond my wildest hopes! But for this final audacity you’ll pay with your neck!’

  Swinging round on his father, he shouted: ‘Do’st know the snake that thou hast harboured here? He has wounded me and killed de Caylus this very night! Aye, and the cur has brought indelible shame upon our house. He has seduced Athénaïs!’

  Roger overturned the small table behind which he stood and jumped for the door. But it was too late. Attracted by Count Lucien’s shouts the two footmen had come running upstairs; with them, in the office, were Paintendre and the returning M. de Rayneval. The way was blocked and Roger was unarmed. He knew that he was trapped.

  23

  The Three Fugitives

  For a second all seven men remained absolutely motionless, as though posed in some dramatic tableaux vivant, three on the inner side of the open doorway and four on the other. Suddenly they came to life.

  ‘Seize him!’ cried Count Lucien to the footmen. ‘Seize him, and call the Archers of the Guard!’

  The footmen were just behind M. de Rayneval. As they pushed past him to obey, Roger acted. Thrusting Count Lucien aside with one hand he slammed the door to with the other, locked it and pulled the key out. Turning his back to the door, he faced father and son.

  The young Count gave a shout: ‘Break down the door! Break down the door!’
And those outside began to hammer upon it.

  The Marquis’s face was now chalk-white. ‘It cannot be true,’ he gasped. ‘’Tis like a nightmare! I’ll not believe it!’

  Roger’s shove had sent Count Lucien reeling against a gilded console table fixed to the wall. The blood was seeping through a bandage on his thigh, and with one foot slightly raised he clung to the table for support.

  ‘You’ll have ample proof soon enough, Monsieur,’ he cried. ‘My own blood is first testimony to what I say, and de Caylus’s servants will have carried the story of the fight to a hundred ears by now.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ Roger snapped. ‘Had you not snatched off my mask and given free rein to your imbecile tongue no one would ever have known who it was that challenged de Caylus to fight, or why.’

  ‘Mask! Challenge!’ exclaimed the Marquis. ‘What means all this? For God’s sake tell me plainly what has occurred.’

  ‘De Caylus and myself were returning from Versailles to his house in the Bois de Meudon,’ said Count Lucien hurriedly. ‘Our coach was held up by this churl and some friends of his. They wounded one of the servants, then attacked us, forcing us to fight.’

  ‘You cowardly assassin! Why not stick to the truth?’ Roger cried, trembling with rage. ‘My friends accompanied me only to see fair play. Since de Caylus refused the civil challenge that I sent I was forced to taunt him to a fight; but when we did fight it was man to man; until you sneaked up on me from the rear and tried to run me through the back. Yet even then I bested both of you single-handed and, having marked you well, slew him in fair fight.’

  The Marquis stared at him with unbelieving eyes. ‘You killed de Caylus in single combat? I’ll not believe it! He was one of the finest swordsmen in all France.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘Disbelieve it then, if you wish. Those who saw it will vouch for what I say.’

  To make themselves heard they now had to shout, as the people outside had fetched implements and were endeavouring to break down the door; but it was of heavy oak with a good stout lock and at present only quivered at the blows that rained upon it.