The Launching of Roger Brook

by Dennis Wheatley

  For a moment they fought with renewed ferocity, the Count striving with might and main to finish his antagonist while he had him half crouching in the ditch. The very fury of his attack proved his temporary undoing. Instead of confining himself to thrusts he fought wild, using all his giant strength to beat down Roger’s guard. Suddenly his sword snapped off short at the hilt.

  As de Caylus jumped back it was Roger’s turn to give a cry of Humph. Coming to his feet he sprang out of the ditch and rushed upon his adversary. But before he could get into position to lunge the Count had flung the hilt of his broken sword in his face.

  Roger ducked, but just not quickly enough. The sword hilt caught him on the forehead, bounced from it and fell with a clang on to the road. For a moment he was half stunned and stood tottering there. De Caylus meanwhile had leapt back once more and cast a frantic glance round. His eye fell upon Count Lucien’s sword, which had been left lying by the roadside some fifteen yards away. Rushing towards it, he snatched it up.

  By the time Roger had recovered from his knock on the head sufficiently to advance again, de Caylus was on guard and ready for him. Again the deepening shadows echoed to the clash of swords. Up—down. Up—down. Thrust—stamp—parry. Clash—clash—clash.

  But both the combatants were tired now. Neither had had a chance to take off their coats or neckbands, and both were streaming with sweat. Panting, grasping, their clothes disordered, their faces haggard and the perspiration trickling into their eyes, they fought doggedly on. Each thrust they gave grew weaker yet neither could get past the other’s guard.

  Suddenly de Caylus made a desperate bid to end matters. Charging in on Roger he lined his sword high and lunged downwards. It was a cunning but unorthodox stroke, since it left its deliverer’s breast temporarily exposed; yet it was the one that had defeated de la Tour d’Auvergne two months before.

  Having heard the Vicomte describe exactly how it had been administered Roger knew the pass. It was his opportunity. Instead of endeavouring to parry the stroke he delivered a counter thrust himself. Lunging with every ounce of his remaining strength he went almost to his knees as he followed through, his left arm flung straight out behind him. De Caylus’s blade passed harmlessly over his shoulder; his own pierced the Count through the heart and came out six inches behind his back.

  For a moment de Caylus remained standing there, his eyes goggling. Then the blood gushed from his mouth and, with a horrible choking noise, he crashed to the ground. The falling body wrenched Roger’s sword-hilt from his hand; he staggered back, swayed drunkenly, and fell himself.

  Almost overcome with exhaustion he lay gasping for breath in the middle of the road; then, dimly, he heard someone shouting at him. De la Tour d’Auvergne had ridden up and, wild with excitement, was congratulating him on his victory. Another voice joined in, and as Roger struggled panting to his knees he saw de Périgord coming at a limping run towards him.

  ‘’Twas a marvel!’ cried the Abbé. That final thrust of yours was superb! By the most cursed luck I missed the beginning. Before I could get to my coach you had all disappeared, and in following, my fool of a man took the wrong fork of the road a quarter of a mile back. But there is blood on your face. Are you badly hurt?’

  ‘Nay,’ gasped Roger. ‘I’ve naught but a scratch on the shoulder; and a cut on the head—where his sword-hilt struck—when he threw it at me.’

  The Abbé cast a glance at de Caylus’s prostrate body. ‘He’ll throw no more sword-hilts,’ he said grimly. ‘I left the doctor in my coach, and the coach just round the bend of the road behind us; since the less he knows the better. Unless you need his ministrations yourself, ’tis pointless to call him.’

  ‘I pray you do so. Abbé,’ cut in the Vicomte. ‘Count Lucien de Rochambeau is wounded and should have attention.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed de Périgord. ‘Did he then join in the fight?’

  Roger nodded. ‘The young caitiff sought to strike me down from behind. But worse! While I was parleying at the coach door he snatched off my mask and, like an imbecile, cried aloud both my name and his sister’s. So all is known. De Caylus’s people will be retailing the story to half Paris before another hour is past.’

  ‘Sacré bleu! Then the question of your returning to your mother is settled for you. You must fly instantly! To horse, man! To horse!’

  De la Tour d’Auvergne manœuvred Roger’s mount round for him, and cried: ‘The Abbé is right! Your life will depend on the distance you can put between Paris and yourself before morning.’

  ‘One moment!’ muttered Roger, and putting his foot on de Caylus’s carcase he began to tug upon his sword to get it free.

  The Vicomte went on quickly to de Périgord. ‘I had Count Lucien carried back to their coach. One of the footmen is wounded also. I had to shoot him before we could bring them to a halt. ’Twould be wise to leave your doctor to do what he can for them, and get away from here as quickly as possible yourself. In your place I would go into hiding for a while.’

  The Abbé considered for a moment, then he said: ‘Nay, ’tis not necessary. I saw only the end of the fight, not its beginning, and shall maintain that having delivered M. le Chevalier de Brook’s message to M. de Caylus I was in no way responsible for what followed. But your case, mon cher Vicomte, is very different. Since you pistolled one of the servants, and played a major part in holding up the coach, you have laid yourself open to most serious charges.’

  ‘I know it, and intend to seek safety in flight.’

  Having recovered his sword Roger mounted his horse, and said to the Abbé: ‘I’ve no choice now but to bid you farewell; but I thank you mightily for your help in this night’s work and pray that no ill will come to you on account of it.’

  ‘Fear not for me,’ de Périgord smiled. To make my innocence the more plain I intend to drive on to de Caylus’s petite maison and, with appropriate face, prepare them to receive his body. Besides, the night is yet young, and the beautiful Olympe should not be deprived of her supper. I’ll carry her back to Passy in my coach and do my poor best to console her for the loss of her rich lover.’

  Roger could not help laughing. ‘Abbé, you are incorrigible! May your zest for enjoyment never flag; and may we meet again to talk of this night at our ease, over a good bottle.’

  ‘We will, mon ami. If a warrant is issued to prevent your return I will seek you out when I go to England. In the meantime pray bear my greetings to Lord and Lady Grey, and to Mr. Pitt, should you see him. Take occasion also to wait upon your uncle, and tell my Lord Kildonan to bring me news of you when next he comes to Paris.’

  De la Tour d’Auvergne had already turned his horse in the direction of Sevres. Roger followed suit, and with shouts of farewell they galloped off into the gathering darkness.

  After two miles they eased their pace and walked their horses to give them a breather. It was the Vicomte who broke the silence, by saying a little coldly:

  ‘From de Périgord’s parting messages I gather that your mother lives in England, and that you are, in fact, an Englishman?’

  ‘’Tis true,’ Roger admitted. ‘My real name is Brook.’

  ‘’Then may one ask why you have always given yourself out to be a Frenchman from the German provinces?’

  ‘’Twas not through any wish to deceive a good friend such as yourself,’ Roger assured him quickly. ‘It came about through my once having narrowly escaped being mobbed by some sailors who had ample cause to hate the English; and, later, to unsay what I had already said to various people seemed to invite too many needless complications. De Périgord discovered the truth only because he heard me babbling while unconscious from a blow on the head, and it then transpired that he is acquainted with my uncle. The story of how I came to France and entered M. de Rochambeau’s service is a long one. I have often meant to tell it you, but no suitable occasion ever seemed to occur. I do trust that you are not offended by my having failed to make you this confidence?’

  ‘Nay, not t
he least, now I understand the reason for your reticence. I was wondering, though, if Athénaïs knows that you are an Englishman and of noble birth.’

  ‘Yes, she has done so for a long time past. But why do you ask?’

  ‘Because it seemed to me that if she knew your secret and had long regarded you as her equal, she could not help but love you.’

  ‘Monsieur le Vicomte, you pay me a great compliment.’

  ‘No more than is your due as a most handsome and gallant gentleman. The romance of your situation, too, could hardly fail to appeal to any maiden, and, since you have told her this long story of yours, I can only assume that at times you must have managed to meet in private. Loving her as you do you would have been scarce human had you not attempted it.’

  Roger sighed. ‘Were anyone else to question me on this I’d deny it with my last breath; but, to you, I will avow it. Athénaïs and I have met many times in secret and we love one another very dearly.’

  ‘I should have had the wit to guess it,’ murmured the Vicomte; then, after a moment, he added: ‘That being so, I find it surprising that you did not attempt to elope together.’

  ‘We toyed with the idea,’ Roger admitted. ‘But almost from the first both of us knew in our hearts that we could never marry.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘The sword of religion lies between us. I am a Protestant, and neither of us are prepared to give up our faith for that of the other. We recognised that our love must remain no more than a romantic attachment.’

  ‘Yet you knew that she must marry, and marry soon?’

  ‘We accepted that. But both of us pinned our hopes upon her being given a husband who would love her and whom she would grow to love.’

  ‘’Twas a slender hope,’ remarked the Vicomte cynically, ‘seeing the manner in which such marriages are arranged.’

  ‘Nay, not so slender in her case. Both she and I knew of your devotion to her and discussed it many times. She vowed that she would be mighty pleased to have so true a gentleman as yourself for her husband and would give all her mind to proving a good and loyal wife. ‘Twas as savage a blow to us as to you when her father chose M. de Caylus for her.’

  ‘Aye, ’twas damnable ill-fortune; and I feel it to be more than ever so in view of what you tell me. Her romantic love for you is a thing apart. If her thoughts were already favourably engaged towards me, I vow I would have won her affections after a few months of marriage, and made her happy. Whereas, instead, her situation has become most desperate.’

  ‘I know it,’ muttered Roger gloomily. ‘Count Lucien ruined my whole plan. Once ’tis noised abroad that her father’s secretary fought on her behalf everyone will put the worst construction on it. Even were it given out that I was a Prince of the Blood, who had been living in the household incognito, it could not save her from the scandal of having had an affair while still an unmarried girl.’

  The Vicomte nodded. ‘M. de Rochambeau will force her to take the veil. ’Tis his only possible course, consonant with honour, in such a situation.’

  ‘Yes; ’tis a tragedy; and I have but one consolation. She swore to me upon the cross that she would rather enter a convent than wed de Caylus; so my act tonight has burdened her with no worser fate than she would otherwise have decreed for herself.’

  ‘Do you really believe that she would have carried out her threat?’

  ‘I am certain of it. ’Twas all I could manage a week back to dissuade her from defying her father; and when I told her I had arranged this meeting she would have burnt her boats to prevent it, had I not vowed that I meant to fight de Caylus whether she did or no.’

  ‘Will you attempt to see her before leaving?’

  ‘Nay. We have no rendezvous, and ’twould make her case worse than ever did I force my way in upon her. I had meant to arrange a meeting tomorrow morning but now I dare not stay for that.’ As he spoke, Roger urged his mount into a canter and added: ‘Come! Every moment is precious. Now our horses are rested let us push on.’

  After another long gallop they eased their pace again and the Vicomte said: ‘Mon ami, I cannot keep this up. My old wound is paining me too badly. You must go on alone.’

  ‘Mort dieu!’ exclaimed Roger. ‘I had forgotten it, and marvel now that you have stayed the pace so far. ’Tis the best of reasons for us remaining together, though; for should it reopen it may cause you to faint.’

  ‘’Twill not reopen, provided I take my time for the rest of the way. But that you cannot afford to do.’

  Roger knew it only too well; but, once again, he was not thinking on the same lines as his companion. The Vicomte had in mind the hue and cry that would soon be raised after the slayer of de Caylus, whereas he was concerned with the urgency of his getting back to Paris for the conference at which the Archbishop of Toulouse was to give his fateful decision. The meeting with de Caylus had taken much longer than he had thought would be the case and he still had over half the distance back to the Hôtel de Rochambeau to cover. He would be late anyhow, and if he delayed to keep de la Tour d’Auvergne company he might miss the meeting altogether; yet he felt that he could not leave his friend who was now suffering, as well as in danger on his account; so he said firmly: ‘I’ll not go on and leave you exposed to a greater risk of capture than myself.’

  ‘For me, capture would mean, at worst, a reprimand from the King and a spell in the Bastille; whereas for you it would mean death.’

  ‘True. Yet seeing the jeopardy in which you have placed yourself for me, I cannot bring myself to leave you.’

  De la Tour d’Auvergne shook his head impatiently. ‘I mean to seek sanctuary on my father’s estates; as, once there, ’tis most unlikely that anything less than a charge of treason would be pressed against me. But the roads to Brittany and England are divergent, so we would have to part company in another hour or two in any event. I beg, nay, I insist, that you should use the time to the best possible advantage. Otherwise, if you are caught, I’ll always believe that but for me you would have got away, and have your death upon my conscience.’

  ‘In that case you leave me no option,’ Roger replied with a feeling of relief that he could not repress. ‘But I pray you make what haste you can, so as to be well clear of Paris before morning.’

  ‘’Twill be hours yet before warrants can be issued for us.’

  ‘I trust so. But since you are in no condition to ride hard ’tis doubly important that you should set out for Brittany with a minimum of delay.’

  ‘I shall not ride,’ the Vicomte announced, ‘but travel by post-chaise with a team of six; and while my man is making the necessary arrangements I intend to call at the Hôtel de Rochambeau.’

  ‘You plan, then, to wait on Athénaïs and tell her what has occurred?’ said Roger; and, as de la Tour d’Auvergne nodded, he went on quickly: ‘I’m mighty glad of that. I had been racking my wits without avail, for some means of getting our news to her. I pray you make my adieus and explain the necessity under which I lie to depart without taking leave of her in person.’

  The Vicomte hesitated. ‘I intended only to make my own adieus and, whilst doing so, offer formal condolences on her fiancé having been killed in a duel, as though I had but just heard it. Since she knew of your intentions she will realise immediately who killed him.’

  ‘Heavens, man! Why stick at that?’ Roger expostulated. ‘’Tis but half the tale and will not give her warning of the storm which is about to break above her lovely head as a result of her brother’s malice and stupidity. ’Twas to prepare her to meet her father’s wrath on my account that I was seeking some way to get news to her; and, since you’ve a mind to say farewell to her before setting out for Brittany, ’tis the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘That’s sound enough and, could I see her alone, I would willingly both tell her all and give her your messages. But you seem to forget that Madame Marie-Angé is certain to be present at our interview.’

  ‘What if she is! She, too, will be in full possession of t
he truth by tomorrow morning. There is naught to be gained by withholding it from her overnight. I beg you to speak openly before both of them, so that at least Athénaïs may have a little time to take stock of her situation.’

  ‘I had not looked at it that way before, but you are right,’ the Vicomte declared. ‘Now you must tarry no longer. God speed you, and a safe journey.’

  ‘And to you, dear friend!’ replied Roger feelingly. ‘I’ll ne’er forget your kindness, and I trust we’ll meet again in happier circumstances.’

  The two young men clasped hands firmly, then Roger pressed his knees into his horse and urged it forward.

  It was nearly half-past nine and darkness had fallen. The conference had been called for ten o’clock, and Roger doubted if he could get to it much before half-past. He no longer cared a straw if the Marquis should be angry at his lateness, but he was desperately anxious now lest the meeting should prove a short one and the decision be taken before his arrival. Since he could not have galloped his horse for the best part of nine miles he had so far lost little time unavoidably; but in an endeavour to make up some of the leeway caused by de Caylus’s reluctance to fight, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and forced him to go all out.

  In spite of the semi-darkness he made good going all through the outskirts of Paris, and even when he reached the cobbled streets still did not spare his fast-failing mount. A church clock was striking the quarter after ten as he passed the Tuilleries. Five minutes later, he clattered past a long line of waiting coaches outside the Hôtel de Rochambeau, and turned into its courtyard.

  Flinging himself off the steaming horse he threw the bridle to a groom, who had come running out of the stable at the sound of the hoof-beats on the pavé. Then he ran to the door of the mansion.