The Launching of Roger Brook (45 page)

As the days lengthened, Roger began to go hawking and coursing with Chenou again, but somehow it seemed that their sport nearly always brought them near the little river on the bank of which he had had his set-to with Athénaïs.

The sight of the stream was enough to recall the memory of her to him with poignant vividness, and whenever he thought of her now it was to excuse her conduct there while condemning his own. He argued that she had behaved only in accordance with her upbringing whereas he should have known better than to take such a mean revenge. The fact that she had refrained from charging him with his crime, and a very heinous crime it was under French law, he put down to her generous and Christian spirit; and that she had
returned good for evil by coming to dress his hurts made him see her now as a beautiful martyr turned ministering angel. For her to have done so, he persuaded himself, was a certain sign of her forgiveness and he regretted more than ever that she had left for Paris before he had had a chance to beg her pardon on his knees. With every week that passed his longing to see her again increased, and he felt that he would be prepared to suffer any humiliation if only it would restore him to her good graces. But Paris was a far cry from Bécherel and any hope of his getting there seemed as remote as if he had desired a journey to the moon.

Towards the end of February he had a dream about Georgina. During his first year in France he had often thought of her, sometimes with a keen surge of physical longing engendered by memories of that unforgettable embrace up in the tower, at others with shame at having failed her so lamentably. Then, as time wore on, her image had come to his mind more rarely, but always with tenderness and happy memories of the countless hours of joyous companionship that they had known together as boy and girl. During those early months, when he had thought of her so frequently, he had always put off writing to her in the hope that if he waited a little longer, when he did write he would have a better report to give of his affairs; but his situation had improved only by such slow degrees, unmarked by any spectacular triumph, that he had never yet reached a point which had seemed to call for a full disclosure to her of his initial folly, later humdrum existence, and still indifferent prospects.

Yet in his dream he saw her with extraordinary vividness. He could see the rich colouring of her ripe, voluptuous beauty and almost feel her warm breath upon his cheek. Her dark eyes were sparkling with excitement as she reached out and, taking his left hand in hers, drew him swiftly along beside her. He had no idea where she was leading him but he saw that in his right hand he held a thick roll of parchment. Then he found himself in a shadowy room standing before the Marquis, and Georginas’ voice came clearly from somewhere in his rear.

‘Give it to him!’ she was saying. ‘Give it to him, Roger, darling. ’Tis that way your fortune lies.’

Then the dream faded and he woke with a start; yet for
a minute he had a strong impression that Georgina was still standing there near him in the darkness.

Now fully awake, he could recall every circumstance of the dream, and more, he was suddenly aware that the roll of parchment he had been carrying was the claim to the
Domaine de St. Hilaire
.

The Marquis had said that when the work was finished, but not before, Roger was to report to him wherever he might be. He had meant, Roger felt certain, report in writing; but he had not definitely said so. It now flashed into Roger’s mind that he could not be blamed if he chose to interpret the order as one to report in person. That would mean his going to Paris, and in Paris he would see Athénaïs.

‘He had already translated the greater part of the documents, so the back of the job was broken; but he had yet finally to collate them and make a full, clearly reasoned brief on the whole subject.

From the following morning on he completely abandoned all his other pursuits. Not an hour would he give to hunting, fencing or reading the Encyclopaedists; not a moment to day-dreaming about Athénaïs. Shut up in his room at the top of the house he laboured with unflagging energy, hour after hour, day after day, from early in the morning until his eyes were blurred with fatigue at night. He knew that he could not set out for Paris one second before the whole tangled skein had been completely unravelled and its threads laid out in lines plain for anyone to see; and every second spent on the work brought him a second nearer to once again beholding his beloved.

For nearly seven weeks he stuck grimly to his task, grudging even the time he had to give to eating and sleeping, but, at last, it was finished. Every document had been numbered and put back in the big chest. A fat folder contained an index to them and a précis of each; and, with a sense beyond his years, he had composed two briefs instead of one. The first was a twenty-five-thousand word history of the claim, besprinkled with genealogical trees, references and quotations from the original material. It was intended for the lawyers who would handle the case, but, foreseeing that the Marquis would probably have neither the time nor the inclination to wade through this long and complicated argument, Roger had prepared a separate statement for
him. It contained a clear, concise summary of all the salient points in less than two thousand words.

On the 16th April, taking his two briefs and a small valise, Roger set out for Paris. For the first stage, into Rennes, he took one of the Marquis’s best horses, but he paused there only to eat a quick meal, then went on by post. Travelling light, as he was, he made good going, and along the main roads he found no difficulty in securing relays. Normally, he would have stopped for a few hours in each of the towns through which he passed to see something of them, but obsessed by the one idea that every mile he covered brought him nearer to Athénaïs he halted only to eat, sleep and change horses. Vitré, Mayenne, Alençon, Chartres and Rambouillet were all passed by him with unseeing eyes, and on the afternoon of the 21st of April he rode into the crowded, smelly streets of Paris.

Aldegonde had told him how to find the Hôtel de Rochambeau, which lay in the
Rue St. Honoré
, hard by the Palace of the Louvre. It was a huge, old-fashioned house with turrets, balconies and upper storeys that overhung a central courtyard.

Handing his horse over to a groom who was lounging there he hurried into the house. He had no thought now for the documents which had cost him such arduous toil, or for the Marquis to whom he was to present them. Yet he dared not ask direct for Athénaïs and had already made up his mind that the quickest way to secure tidings of her was to pay his respects without a moment’s delay to Madame Marie-Angé.

Two footmen were standing in the hall and one of them came forward to ask his business.

‘Madame Velot,’ he almost gasped, ‘I wish to see her—urgently. Please tell her that Monsieur Breuc is below and craves permission to wait upon her.’

The footman bowed: ‘I regret, Monsieur, but Madame Velot left yesterday with Mademoiselle de Rochambeau to pass the summer at Bécherel.’

It was a crushing disappointment. With eyes for nothing but the road ahead he must have passed Athénaïs in her coach somewhere between Chartres and Rambouillet the previous afternoon. Evidently her father had altered his plans for her as, after all, she was to spend the summer at Bécherel. If only Roger had known that he might have saved himself the gruelling labour of the past two months. Even had he spread the work over another six months no one could have accused him of idleness, and a whole summer could hardly have passed without his being able to find a means of showing his repentance to the beautiful girl that he loved so desperately. But it was too late to think of that now. His work on the affair of the
Domaine de St. Hilaire
was completed and he must hand it over to the Marquis.

‘Is there anyone else that Monsieur would like to see?’ inquired the footman.

‘Er—yes,’ Roger murmured, bringing his thoughts back with a jerk. ‘Kindly take up my name to M. l’Abbé d’Heury.’

Five minutes later he was with the stooping, dark-eyed priest, explaining the reason for his arrival in Paris.

D’Heury said that the Marquis had left that morning for Versailles, where he had his own apartments in the palace, but that he transacted most of his business in Paris and did all his entertaining there, so he was certain to return in the course of a few days. Having taken the two reports for submission to the Marquis he then sent for Monsieur Roland, the major-domo of the Paris establishment, and ordered him to provide anything that Roger might require for his comfort during his stay in the capital.

He was given a room at the top of the house that was pleasantly furnished but had an uninspiring outlook, as its casement windows opened on to some leads beyond which a sloping roof cut off any view of the city. Having travelled light from Bécherel he decided to go out at once to buy a few things.

As for many months past he had lived in the depths of the country he found the din and turmoil of the streets a little disconcerting. Paris had seemed huge to him as he had ridden in through its suburbs earlier in the day and on closer inspection it also struck him as having an extraordinarily dense quality. The houses, streets, churches and alleys were packed together as closely as the cells in a honeycomb, and the gabled roofs projected so far over the narrow ways that it was often impossible to glimpse more than a thin strip of sky. The people in the streets had neither the leisurely gait nor the open countenances of the average provincial; with set, intent faces they hurried about their business like a swarm of ants in a nest. Roger lost himself twice in ten minutes, found the façade of the Louvre again and, having completed his purchases, returned to the Hôtel.

That evening he dined with the gaunt Abbé d’Heury and got to know a little about him. It transpired that he was a Molinest, and therefore an enemy of the bigoted, spartan Jansenists who had dominated French religious thought ever since the decline of the power of the Jesuits. He appeared to be an ascetic by nature who had become a broadminded man of the world owing to his occupation, and he displayed a masterful grip of both politics and international relations.

Roger also learned a certain amount about the Marquis. M. de Rochambeau was, it emerged, one of the more serious of the Queen’s personal friends and stood high in her favour. Her Majesty frequently consulted him on foreign affairs, which were his principal interest, and nearly always adopted his opinion. Thus, while the Comte de Vergennes was the official Foreign Minister and advised the King, M. de Rochambeau often played a more powerful part in shaping the destinies of France, since the Queen, once having made up her mind about a matter, was infinitely more persistent and determined on its execution than her weak-willed consort.

Towards the end of the meal Roger remarked, with as casual an air as he could manage, how sorry he was not to have had the opportunity of paying his respects to Madame Velot before she left for Bécherel. His fly produced the information he was seeking.

After cutting himself a slice from a pineapple the Abbé
replied: ‘Indeed, yes. You missed the chance of congratulating her on her good fortune. Her post as duenna had been secured to her for another year by Monseigneur’s decision that Mademoiselle Athénaïs is still too young to marry.’

Striving to keep a tremor from his voice, Roger asked: ‘Was her marriage under contemplation, then?’

’Twas Monseigneur’s original intention that she should be married this summer, and on her presentation at Court her beauty raised quite a furore. She will also, of course, bring her husband a very considerable dowry; so a dozen great families put forward candidates for her hand; but she will not be seventeen until June, and, on second thoughts, Monseigneur felt that it would be time enough for him to make a final choice of a husband for her next winter.’

In bed that night Roger thought over his situation and was far from happy about it. He had lost his chance of a
rapprochement
with Athénaïs for many months, if not for good; as he had not now the faintest idea where he would be when she returned to Paris next autumn. Somewhat belatedly he realised that by so speedily completing his work on the
Domaine de St. Hilaire
he had cooked his own goose. Now the job was done it seemed most unlikely that the Marquis would have any other similar work for him, so the odds were that he would be paid off. That would put an end to his association with the de Rochambeau family and he would have to seek fresh employment. By writing to Maître Léger he could, no doubt, get himself taken on as a temporary in Maître Jeurat’s office—the point at which he had had the chance of reopening his bid for fortune nine months before—and to become once more a lawyer’s clerk seemed doubly hard after the life he had been leading.

During the two days that followed he continued to take his meals with the Abbé and spent the rest of his time exploring the city. He walked all round the vast block of the
Palais du Louvre
and the
Palais des tuilleries
; went to a Mass in Notre Dame, visited the Churches of St. Roche, St. Sulpice and the Madeleine; and went out to stare at the great pile of the Bastille, with its eight round towers and crenellated battlements that seemed to tower to the skies.

He would have greatly liked to buy himself a new suit, as he had long since grown out of his own clothes and most of the things he was wearing had been bought second-hand
from Quatrevaux over a year before, and during the interval he had again grown considerably. However, in view of his once more uncertain future, he thought it better not to risk any major outlay for the moment; but he purchased a pair of smart buckled shoes and had his dark brown hair redressed in the latest style by a barber. On the afternoon of the third day following his arrival the Marquis returned to the capital and after dinner that night, sent for him.

The Hôtel de Rochambeau in Paris was much older than that in Rennes or the Château de Bécherel, so most of its rooms were neither large nor lofty and Roger was surprised at the spaciousness of the first floor chamber into which he was shown by the servant who had been sent to fetch him. It was Jow-ceilinged but both long and wide with a row of mullioned windows looking out on to the courtyard. At one end a great map of Europe almost covered the wall; at the other the Marquis was working at a desk inlaid with tortoiseshell. The centre of the room was occupied by a large oval table and on the wall facing the row of windows there were more maps as well as a case filled with sombrely bound reference books; all of which gave the place more the atmosphere of a council chamber than a workroom or library.