The Launching of Roger Brook (42 page)

When he visited Madame Marie-Angé they never spoke of Athénaïs but discussed the contents of the news sheets, and towards the end of August they learned of an affair that had set all France in a dither. On the fifteenth of that month the Cardinal Prince, Louis de Rohan, Grand Almoner to the King, had been publicly arrested as he left the chapel of Versailles in his pontifical robes and, by His Majesty’s order, imprisoned in the Bastille.

Nothing was known for certain, but the report ran that the Cardinal was accused of having forged the Queen’s signature on an order to the Court jewellers, and thereby fraudulently obtaining a diamond necklace valued at one million six hundred thousand
livres
. What made the affair seem so extraordinary was that de Rohan was one of the richest nobles in France; so rumour already had it that some deep intrigue unconnected with money lay at the bottom of this mysterious affair.

The wrangle between the Austrians and the Dutch had gone on all through the summer, but now Louis XVI had offered himself as a mediator; so it was hoped that with the aid of France a definite settlement might be reached. But Dutch anxieties were, at the moment, being added to by grave internal troubles amongst themselves.

The Stadtholder, William V of Orange, had succeeded his father at the age of three, and his long minority had enabled the Republican party—which was in fact a body of rich, ambitious merchants who wished to replace the throne by an oligarchy—to gain great power. On attaining his majority, in 1766, the Stadtholder had entered into a pact with the Duke of Brunswick, who had previously acted as his Regent, to assist him in governing the country. This was regarded by the Republicans as unconstitutional and, after years of intrigue they had, the previous October, at last
forced the Duke’s resignation. Abandoned by his minister the weak and inept William now found himself at the mercy of his enemies. A tumult had broken out in the Hague and the States-General had deprived him of the command of the garrison; upon which he had taken refuge in Gelderland, one of the few States remaining loyal to him.

From time to time Roger came face to face with Athénaïs in the house or garden and, while nothing would have induced him to show the servility of lowering his eyes in her presence, as she had ordered, he made no attempt to speak to her. He always bowed politely and she acknowledged his salutations with calm aloofness. But towards the end of September he was destined to see her in an entirely new guise.

It was on a Sunday morning and, on his way to chapel, he slipped on the marble stairs. By grabbing at the balustrade he managed to save himself from falling, but his nose came in violent contact with a nearby pillar, and started to bleed. Thinking it would soon stop he went on to his usual seat between Aldegonde and Chenou, but all through the service the bleeding continued and by its end his handkerchief was soaked through with blood.

Immediately they came out Chenou said: ‘You must do something to stop that bleeding. ’Tis Mademoiselle’s hour in her surgery, so you had best go there at once and let her attend to it for you.’

‘Surgery!’ snuffled Roger, ‘I did not know she had one.’

‘Why, yes! ’Tis in the west wing, round by the Orangery. Come, I will take you there.’

Roger would have liked to refuse but, as his nose was still bleeding profusely, he did not very well see how he could do so, and as he accompanied Chenou across the courtyard he asked: ‘How long is it since Mademoiselle has taken to practising medicine?’

‘From the time she was quite little, when she used to help her mother,’ Chenou replied. ‘But since Madame la Marquise died, three years ago, she has continued to run the surgery with the aid of Madame Velot. The sick poor from the village come up to the château each Sunday after Mass, and she tells them what to do for their ailments.’

At the entrance to the surgery they found a little crowd of village people patiently waiting their turn, but Chenou insisted that Roger needed immediate attention and pushed
him in ahead of them. The walls of the room were lined with shelves carrying an array of big jars and bottles; behind a heavy oak table Madame Marie-Angé and the
Curé
were busy handing out ointments and medicines; Athénaïs, her clothes covered by a white smock, was dressing an ugly ulcer on the leg of an old peasant.

As Roger came in she looked at him in surprise, then, seeing the bloodstained handkerchief he was holding to his face she told the
Curé
to bandage up the old man’s leg for her, and beckoned Roger over.

His nose had now swollen up and his eyes were still watering, so he presented a most woebegone appearance and, although for a moment she tried to restrain her mirth, she could not help laughing at him. He hardly knew whether he was pleased or annoyed, but she could not have been kinder or more gentle as she bathed his face, anointed the injured member with a soothing ointment and, having put a cold-water compress on it, made him lie down on a couch until the bleeding should cease.

It was this episode which convinced him that, if he could only find some way of breaking down this absurd social barrier that lay between them, he might yet gain her friendship and affection. But how to do so seemed an almost insoluble problem.

He thought of seeking her out and telling her the whole truth about himself—that he was, in fact, the son of an English Admiral and the grandson of an Earl; but he had carried on his imposture as a native of Strasbourg for so long that he did not think she would believe him. Once more he began to conjure up fantastic day-dreams in which she was beset by some dire peril from which he rescued her in the nick of time; yet in the quiet, sheltered life that she led at Bécherel it seemed that no event could possibly occur that would enable him to draw his sword in her defence.

Nevertheless he began, almost unconsciously at first, to neglect his work in order to seek opportunities of watching her from a distance; and he soon discovered that his best chances of this were when she went out riding. She was always accompanied by a groom and, in any case, he had no intention of forcing himself upon her. But she drew him like a magnet, and, as he could take a horse from the stable at any time, it was easy for him to ride out after her and, while unobserved himself, follow her at half a mile or so
for the joy of looking his fill at her slim, elegant figure.

He was following her in this way one afternoon in mid-October, when he saw that her groom’s horse had cast a shoe. After a short colloquy with her the man turned back, and it was obvious that Athénaïs meant to finish her ride alone, so Roger continued to follow her at a distance.

Some twenty minutes later a peasant child ran out of a hedge, causing the mettlesome mare that Athénaïs was riding to shy violently. Next moment the mare had bolted.

Roger’s heart seemed to leap up into his throat with apprehension, but it was just the chance he had been waiting for to show his prowess and devotion. Spurring his own mount into a gallop he set off after her in wild pursuit.

But for the double hedge, bordering a lane, from which the child had run out, the country was open pasture land. Both horses made good going, but Roger’s was the more powerful animal and after covering half a mile he was already gaining on Athénaïs. She had lost her three-cornered hat and her golden ringlets were flying in the wind, but she seemed to have a good grip of her saddle.

As Roger decreased his distance to her he saw that she was pulling hard on her right rein. Evidently she was trying to steer her runaway mount in the direction of a belt of woodland that lay some three-quarters of a mile away. He imagined that she was counting on the mare slackening her pace, or coming round in a circle, when she saw the barrier of trees. It flashed upon him that Athénaïs might be carried in among them and dashed from her saddle by one of the low branches.

Spurring his own horse to fresh efforts he came charging up on her right. Heading her off from the trees he forced her mare towards the open country, which continued to the left.

Athénaïs shouted something to him but her voice was drowned in the thunder of the hoof-beats. Leaning forward he made a snatch at her bridle. At that moment the mare veered still more towards the left, and he missed it.

Again Athénaïs shouted, but again he failed to catch her words. For two hundred yards they raced on neck to neck. Suddenly he saw a break in the ground ahead. Instantly he realised what Athénaïs had been shouting at him. Her cry had been a warning: The river! The river lies ahead!’

He remembered then that a tributary of the Ranee made
a wide loop there, running along a concealed gully that threaded the flat plain. Next instant he saw it. The sluggish stream lay between two steeply shelving banks and the horses were now no more than a dozen yards from the verge of the nearest.

There was no time left to bring Athénaïs’s mare down to a canter. Leaning forward again Roger seized her rein and jerked upon it with all his strength. The mare, too, had seen the water. Splaying her forefeet she suddenly stopped dead. Athénaïs was shot straight over her head and landed with a resounding splash in the river.

Roger was flung forward on his horse’s neck, but managed to regain his saddle and, still holding both bridles, slid to the ground. With horrified eyes he watched Athénaïs. She was in no danger, as the water was shallow, yet had been deep enough to break her fall. Drenched to the skin, her lovely face blotched with mud and her hair hanging in damp rat’s-tails she had picked herself up and, struggling with her long sodden skirts, was plodding through the slimy mire back to the bank.

He knew that it was his own misdirection of affairs that had led to her receiving this ducking, yet he could not even go to her assistance without risking her horses bolting and leaving them stranded there, miles from home.

Still clutching her riding-switch she staggered from the water and up the slope. Then, her face chalk-white beneath the smears of slime and her blue eyes blazing, she flared at him.

‘You miserable fool! I’ve checked a runaway before now! I would have had my mare under control a mile back, had not the hoof-beats of your horse following behind urged her to gallop faster. And then, of all the senseless idiocy, to ride me into the river! This comes of your spying upon me. Oh, don’t deny it! Of recent weeks you’ve done naught but lurk behind corners and goggle at me from the windows. Think you the servants, too, have no eyes to see such things. I doubt not there is many a jest coupling your name with mine cracked in the kitchen. Oh, ’tis intolerable! I die for very shame to think that such scum should bandy my name about on account of a nobody like you. I hate you for it!’

For a second she paused for breath. Then, lifting her riding-switch, she struck him with it, as she cried: ‘You
wretched upstart! Take that, and that, and that! Then go back and show them your miserable face with the marks of my displeasure.’

Again and again her swift-cutting strokes descended on Roger’s face, head, hands and shoulders. Letting go the bridles of the horses he strove to protect himself from her furious onslaught, but he could neither fend off nor evade her slashes.

There was only one thing to do. Stepping forward he grabbed her arm and twisted the riding-switch from her grasp.

‘How dare you lay hands on me!’ she gasped. ‘’Tis a crime to lay hands on one of noble blood. I’ll have you flogged for that! I’ll have the hand that touched me cut off at the wrist!’

‘Then have my head cut off as well!’ cried Roger, angered beyond endurance. ‘By God! I’ll teach you that you can’t strike a free man with impunity! What’s more, you arrogant little fool, I’ll punish you in a way that will be a lesson to you. Aye, even if I die for it.’

Seizing her round the waist he pulled her to him. Grasping her chin with his left hand he forced up her face. Then, he kissed her hard and full upon the mouth.

For a long moment she lay passive in his arms, then she wrenched herself away and stood staring at him. Her eyes were round, not with fright, but with some emotion that he could not analyse.

Slowly drawing the back of her hand across her mouth, she whispered: ‘You shouldn’t have done that. No man has ever done that to me before.’

‘Then there is less chance that you’ll forget it,’ he said harshly. His face and hands were stinging abominably and thin red weals were springing up in the dozen places where
the switch had lashed them. He felt not a twinge of remorse as he went on: ‘However many Dukes and Princes may kiss you in the future you’ll always remember that your first kiss was given you by a servant, an upstart, a nobody. That is, unless you have the sense to realise that if we both cut ourselves your blood would show no bluer than mine; and that ’tis no disgrace to be kissed by a man who loves you.’

‘If I tell my father of this, he will have you branded with red-hot irons and thrown into prison afterwards,’ she said slowly.

His bruised lips pained him as he gave a twisted smile. ‘I know it. I’ve lived here long enough to realise that the nobility has devised the most fiendish punishments for anyone who lays a finger on their womenfolk. So it seems that my love for you must be mighty desperate for me to have risked that kiss.’

‘’Twas not love, but hate, that inspired you at that moment.’

‘Maybe, you’re right. Maybe, though, ‘twas contempt for all you stand for; coupled with the wish to melt that stony heart of yours.’

‘Mount me on my mare,’ she ordered suddenly.

Obediently, he held out his hand about two feet from the ground; she placed a small foot in its palm and, as he took her weight, sprang into the saddle.

‘My whip,’ she demanded, and added as he gave it to her: ‘You are not to follow me for an hour.’ Then, turning her mare, she galloped away.

Left to himself Roger descended to the river’s edge and bathed his smarting face and hands. When the pain had eased a little he sat down to consider the possible outcome of his rash act.

Soon after his arrival at the château Athénaïs had had one of the footmen thrashed for spilling a cup of chocolate down her gown; so he felt that she was quite capable of having him branded and imprisoned for his infinitely more serious offence.