The Marquis passed a hand across his eyes. "You!" he stammered. "You, my daughter's lover. Mort Dieu! The shame of it will kill me!"
The hammering upon the door forced Rogei to raise his voice still higher, as he cried: "I said that I loved her, not that I was her lover; and there is a vast difference in the terms."
"Who would believe you?" sneered the Count. "Not I, for one."
"Thou art right!" moaned the Marquis. "Marie, Mere de Jesu! What have I done to deserve this? That my wretch of a daughter should give herself to the embraces of one little better than a serf!"
"Damn you!" snarled Roger, with a sudden flash of vindictiveness. " 'Tis good, for once, to see your arrogance humbled."
Lucien leaned forward. " 'Twas but another lie then, about your being of noble birth?"
The door was creaking now. Someone had found a crowbar and was trying to lever it from its sockets. Roger knew that there was no time to spare for arguments and flung back: "Believe what you like, I care not," and took a step towards the long line of windows.
But the Marquis clutched at this straw which might salve his injured pride. Side-stepping to bar Roger's path, he cried: "What is this story? Since you killed de Caylus you must be a remarkably fine swordsman. Have you the right to bear arms?"
Roger ignored the question and shouted: "Stand from my path, or 'twill be the worse for you."
Count Lucien's voice came, now from his rear. "He says he's the nephew of an Earl, and that his father is an Admiral of the English Fleet. The Abbé de Perigord swore to that on his behalf."
Suddenly the Marquis's whole attitude changed. From a distraught and humiliated parent he became again the imperialist statesman. His whole body tensed from the swift realisation that his precious plans were now in vital peril. His mighty scheme might yet be undone if, in ignorance, he had taken an enemy into his employ. Drawing himself up, he cried above the din: "I demand the truth! Have you deceived me as to your origin?"
"Yes," Roger shouted back. "I am an Englishman, and proud of it. Now get from my path, or I'll no longer let the fact that you are Athenais's father weigh with me."
De Rochambeau's reply was a sharp command: "Lucienl Have at at him! He must not leave the room alive!"
The door creaked and groaned; one hinge had given way and the corner above it gaped open. Rhythmic thuds upon the panels told that those who were trying to break it down were now using a heavy piece of furniture as a battering-ram.
At the Marquis's order the Count drew the frail Court sword that he had been wearing ever since leaving Versailles. As Roger heard it slither from its scabbard he swung round. Only two paces separated them. Before Lucien could poise himself for a lunge Roger clenched his fists and went sailing in. The slender sword hovered, still pointing towards the ceiling, as he struck out with his right. The blow took the young man fair and square beneath the chin.
His head shot backwards, his feet slid from under him; and, as he fell, the edge of the console table struck him sharply behind the ear. His body hit the highly-polished floor with a thud, then slithered along it. His sword flew from his hand and clattered away across the parquet. He rolled over once, groaned, and lay still.
As Roger's eye followed Lucien's fall, it suddenly lit upon the letter for the Dutch Republican leaders. It had been lying on his own small table, but had been wafted from it to the floor, when he knocked the table over on Count Lucien's sudden appearance. Previously it had not even occurred to him that he might get away with the vital document. Now, it flashed upon him that, if he could, it would provide incontestable proof of all he meant to say if he ever succeeded in reaching England.
Stooping, he snatched it up, and thrust it into his pocket. Then he turned again, and ran towards the windows.
But in the half-minute occupied by Roger's encounter with Lucien the Marquis had not been inactive. The second he had ordered his wounded son to the attack he had swung about and raced for the far end of the room. The dress sword that he had been wearing before the meeting lay there on a chair. Seizing the shagreen scabbard with one band and its diamond-studded hilt with the other, he wrenched it out.
Roger bad reached the long line of low windows and flung one of them open, but a glance over his shoulder told him that he dared not attempt to wriggle through it. Before he could possibly do so the Marquis would be upon him from the rear.
For the second time that night the horrible thought of a glittering steel blade searing through his back seized him. Turning again he left the window in a bound and sped across the room towards Lucien's limp body.
As he ran his eyes were on the door. The din of blows upon it now half deafened him. Stout as it was, he could see from its swaying that it could not hold much longer. And once the mob of servants broke into the room all chance of escaping by the window would be gone. They would pull him down as surely as a pack of deer hounds founder an exhausted stag at bay.
The impetus of his dash across the room caused him to come up with a crash against the console table. He grabbed at it, missed its edge, and fell. As he rolled over he saw the Marquis coming at him sword in hand. De Rochambeau's blue eyes were as hard and cold as the steel he held. There was not a trace of mercy in them, and he lunged downwards with all his force, intent to kill.
Roger jerked himself violently aside. The point of the sword stabbed through his coat within an inch of his ribs and buried itself quivering in the floor.
For a moment it was stalemate. Roger was pinned down by his clothes, but the Marquis could not free his blade from the wood that gripped its point; the one strove to wrench himself away; the other tugged with all his strength upon his sword. Simultaneously, Roger's coat ripped and the wood yielded up the steel.
The weapon came free with such suddenness that its release nearly sent the Marquis over backwards. As he staggered, and strove to regain his balance for a second thrust, Roger had time to roll over again. His hand shot out and clutched the hilt of Count Lucien's sword. Squirming under the big oval table, he came up on his knees, bumped his head violently, fell forward, recovered, and stumbled to his feet on its far side.
Silent, grim, merciless, the Marquis came round its edge at him. Roger stepped back a pace and threw himself on guard. The swords of both combatants were light, but none the less deadly. They met with a "ting," bent, slithered and circled, catching the rays from the steadily-burning candles.
Now that Roger was armed his hopes of getting away had risen. His victory over de Caylus had given him immense confidence in his sword-play. He did not believe that a man of fifty, who rarely took any exercise, could stand up to him for more than half-a-dozen passes; but he soon found that he had been counting his chickens before they were hatched.
De Rochambeau was no mean swordsman, and he fought with cool, calculated cunning. He made no attempt to disable his antagonist but simply sought to keep him in play while warily defending himself. After he had parried three rapid thrusts Roger divined his intent. He was taking no chances but playing for time, till the door should collapse and the shouting mob outside come streaming in to his assistance.
Roger knew then that he must finish matters or be captured. Suddenly closing in he ran his blade along that of the Marquis until the two swords were hilt to hilt, then he gave a violent twist of his wrist. The stroke was an extremely risky one, as, to make it, he had had to throw himself off balance, but he was gambling on the Marquis's wrist proving weaker than his own. For a second the decision lay in the lap of the gods, then de Rochambeau's wrist gave way. His hand doubled back and his weapon sailed across the room to strike with a clang against his ornate desk.