Roger thanked him graciously, said that he hoped to bring the lady and her attendants down to the quay at about one in the morning, and, returning to his carozza, ordered its driver to take him to Crocielles.
There he booked a room, said that he was going straight to bed, asked to be called at ten o'clock that night with a light meal, and arranged for a coach with a reliable driver to call for him at a quarter to eleven.
When he was woken after his six hours' sleep he felt fit for anything, and extraordinarily confident of success. He was sure that he could count on lovely Irish Sara to do her part, and that Isabella, having had nearly thirty-six hours for reflection, would have decided to come with him.
To his mind it was unthinkable that the proud Don Diego should take any course other than that of repudiating a wife who left him. A noble Spaniard of such ancient lineage would naturally wish to have an heir to succeed to his titles and estates, and he could not beget a legal one without a wife. For that, if for no other reason, he would obviously set about getting an annulment of his first marriage without delay, thus leaving Isabella free to marry again. Roger felt certain that after a little thought she would see that for herself; so he was now untroubled by any further doubts about the issue. Since she loved him, had abundant courage and could rest assured of reassuming an honourable status within a comparatively short time, he would find her packed and ready to enter on a new and happier future as his wife-to-be.
Having eaten his meal, washed, dressed and scented himself, he came downstairs, settled his reckoning and, going outside, gave the driver of the coach careful instructions. He then had himself driven to within a few hundred yards of Isabella's home, got out and walked to a spot near the garden gate where he could keep it under observation without being seen.
To his great satisfaction, shortly after eleven o'clock, Don Diego's tall figure emerged, and the Spaniard's jaunty step was sufficient to indicate the happy errand on which he was bent. Roger watched him disappear from view, allowed a safety margin of ten minutes, then went in over the wall.
A light was burning in Isabella's bedroom, so he advanced boldly across the garden and called softly up to her. After a moment she appeared darkly silhouetted against the partly open, lighted window.
"All is well, my sweet," he said in a low voice. "Don Diego went off a quarter of an hour ago to keep a rendezvous with Madame Goudar. I arranged the matter with her myself, so I am certain of it; you have nothing to fear. Are Maria and Quetzal ready? I have a coach waiting. Shall I come up and help carry down your boxes?"
She shook her head and began to sob.
"What is it? Surely you are not still hesitating?" he asked in a slightly louder voice that held a tremor of uneasiness. " 'Tis as certain as that tomorrow's sun will rise, that Don Diego will ask for an annulment. He must! And the Church could not refuse to grant it to him. 'Tis the only way in which he can beget himself an heir."
"I cannot come with you, Rojé!" she sobbed. "I cannot!"
"Why?" he cried sharply, made terse by sudden desperation. "Why not?"
"I—I cannot!" she choked out. "I—1 love you! I would remain your mistress all my life. I would be your slave! There is nothing I would not do for you, except—except this. I—I—I already carry his child! I shall be the mother of his heir and—and 'twould be unforgivable to deprive him of it. I cannot go with you!"
Turning suddenly she fled back into her room. Stunned for a while,
Roger stared up at the lighted oblong of the window. For him, those words of hers, "I already carry his child," conveyed a terrible finality. He knew now instinctively that no threats, arguments or prayers could prevail. Slowly he turned about, stumbled across the garden and climbed out over its wall.
Half an hour later Lieutenant Umberto Godolfo received him aboard the sloop Aspide. Advancing across the narrow deck the young Neapolitan spread out his hands and asked in surprise:
"But, Monsieur le Chevalier, where is the lady that you were to bring with you?"
"As far as I am concerned she is dead," replied Roger tonelessly. Then, with a touch of his father the Admiral, he added in a voice that brooked no reply:
"Tenente. Be good enough to order your ship to sea."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE RISING STORM
ROGER had spent nine days and nights in Naples. During that time he believed himself to have been carried up to the highest peaks of human happiness and dashed down to the lowest depths of human misery. He had not only burnt the candle at both ends, but also burnt himself. For a week, lack of sleep, except for a few hours a day snatched when most other people were getting up, had made no impression on him. His splendid youth, fortified by love as by draughts of some Olympian nectar, had given him temporarily the buoyancy of a demigod. But the past forty-eight hours of uncertainty, strain and desperation had done what his physical excesses had failed to accomplish. His nerves were in shreds; he felt empty as a drum, mentally exhausted and absolutely at the end of his tether.
Yet, as he drove down to the harbour, the core of sound common sense, that acted as a balance to his highly strung nature, had enabled him to take stock of his position clearly.
It was seven months since he had first met Isabella. For one month of that time he had enjoyed a love idyll with her, and for one week a tornado of passion; but for close on half a year his love for her had deprived him of all his normal zest for life. The future offered no hope of a higher proportion of happiness against misery either for her or him.
Therefore, it seemed, there was only one sensible thing to do. If he wished for any contentment in the future he must exercise his willpower as he had never done before. Each time he thought of Isabella, instead of letting his mind dwell upon her, as he had previously, he must force himself to think of something else. He must cut her right out of his life, and henceforth regard her as though she had died that night.
On his return voyage to Marseilles the weather did not favour him as it had on his outward trip. For a good part of the time it rained and blew, but not sufficiently to make him sea-sick; and so that he should not have time to brood he spent all his waking hours helping the crew with the sails and winches. On the evening of Tuesday, November 24th, after six days at sea, he said good-bye to Lieutenant Godolfo and stepped ashore. Then, knowing how anxious Madame Marie Antoinette would be to learn the result of his mission, he took post-chaise first thing next morning, sustained three days and nights of appalling jolting, and arrived in Paris at midday on the 28th.
He was, once more, incredibly tired from his arduous journey and, feeling that his reappearance at the Tuileries might arouse comment, he wished to make it at a time when it was least likely to attract attention. The next day was a Sunday, and knowing that the Sovereigns received the Foreign Ministers on that day, he felt that it would offer as good an opportunity as any; so he slept the clock round at La Belle Etoiley and made his way to the palace on the following afternoon.
There he found things much as he had left them. The Royal Family had practically no privacy. The garden was full of idlers staring in at the windows, and 800 National Guards were posted in and about the building; there were groups of them lounging in all the halls and principal rooms, and sentries on the staircases and at almost every door.
Mingling with the crowd of diplomats and such courtiers as continued to attend the royal receptions, he made his way upstairs. Most of the Ambassadors were known to him by sight, but there were not many people there with whom he had ever exchanged more than a few words, and, with one exception, to those who addressed him he mentioned casually that for the past three weeks he had been absent from Paris on a trip to England.