his premises, Roger did a very creditable job, improvising very cleverly when he did not have the correct part for one gun.
The previous evening, as he came back from Maître Foucalt’s house, where final arrangements had been made for insurance against treachery by the patron, Roger became aware that he was being watched. He was quite familiar with the sensation. Several times Solange had taken it into her head that he had a regular mistress among the upper-class ladies and had determined to find out who it was. She did not care, of course, except that she hoped to be able to hurt Roger by embarrassing or making trouble for his mistress by exposing her.
In the past, Roger had been furious and disgusted. This time he was delighted. Either the patron was hoping he would go and collect his gold from wherever he had left it, or he was watching for the danger of betrayal. Whichever was true, the watcher was proof that the patron intended to get the rest of the money. Since there was no chance that Roger would betray the whereabouts of the gold, it was a sure bet that the raid on the Hôtel de Ville would take place.
Not wishing to rouse suspicion of any kind at the moment, Roger stayed quietly at the inn all the next day. He spent some time writing a letter to his father, detailing what he had done and warning Sir Joseph not to worry if he did not hear from him again for a little while. He and the de Conyerses might need to hide until the worst of the fury over their escape had passed. He left it to Sir Joseph, he added, whether to show Philip the letter or not. He enclosed this letter in a cover addressed to Pierre Restoir. He would give it to Maître Foucalt’s clerk, who was coming to “borrow” his horse and carriage. The clerk was to drive the vehicle out of town, conceal it at a nearby farm until after dark, and then drive back and wait near the western gate after dark. Henry and his daughter were to be brought there by the patron and his men, who would then follow Roger in another carriage to the place where the gold was “hidden”.
The carriage was “borrowed” exactly on time, as Roger was called to dinner. He found himself as shaken and excited by this preliminary move as he had been when he discovered the smugglers in the cove. It was very difficult indeed to do calm justice to the meal set before him, but he managed. He had contrived to get food down without strangling on it and with a calm and indifferent expression while Solange was berating him at the top of her lungs at a dinner party. To eat while his heart was pounding with pleasurable excitement instead of sick rage and shame was not nearly so difficult.
Later, in the early evening, he engaged in his usual desultory conversation with the other customers of the inn. A traveler who bought wine had come on his way south. He began to regale the company with an eyewitness account of the massacre of the king’s Swiss guard and the deposition of Louis XVI. This was apparently not news to the others in the inn, although they listened avidly to the details. But Roger, who had left England on the twelfth of August, had not heard it previously. The events had taken place, he realized, on the tenth and the information had not come to England before he departed. Why he had not heard of it while he traveled south, he could only guess. Either the small towns he stopped at had not yet received word of the events, or the people there had been afraid to talk in front of a stranger.
A lawyer had considerable practice in maintaining an impassive expression, but Roger felt sick with horror. He was no fanatical upholder of monarchy, but he realized this had to be only a first step along a more desperate and ultimately bloody path. England had tried deposing kings. One had finally been executed and the other escaped that fate only by fleeing the country before he was taken. Deposed kings were not conducive to political peace. Even from France, James II had caused much
The previous evening, as he came back from Maître Foucalt’s house, where final arrangements had been made for insurance against treachery by the patron, Roger became aware that he was being watched. He was quite familiar with the sensation. Several times Solange had taken it into her head that he had a regular mistress among the upper-class ladies and had determined to find out who it was. She did not care, of course, except that she hoped to be able to hurt Roger by embarrassing or making trouble for his mistress by exposing her.
In the past, Roger had been furious and disgusted. This time he was delighted. Either the patron was hoping he would go and collect his gold from wherever he had left it, or he was watching for the danger of betrayal. Whichever was true, the watcher was proof that the patron intended to get the rest of the money. Since there was no chance that Roger would betray the whereabouts of the gold, it was a sure bet that the raid on the Hôtel de Ville would take place.
Not wishing to rouse suspicion of any kind at the moment, Roger stayed quietly at the inn all the next day. He spent some time writing a letter to his father, detailing what he had done and warning Sir Joseph not to worry if he did not hear from him again for a little while. He and the de Conyerses might need to hide until the worst of the fury over their escape had passed. He left it to Sir Joseph, he added, whether to show Philip the letter or not. He enclosed this letter in a cover addressed to Pierre Restoir. He would give it to Maître Foucalt’s clerk, who was coming to “borrow” his horse and carriage. The clerk was to drive the vehicle out of town, conceal it at a nearby farm until after dark, and then drive back and wait near the western gate after dark. Henry and his daughter were to be brought there by the patron and his men, who would then follow Roger in another carriage to the place where the gold was “hidden”.
The carriage was “borrowed” exactly on time, as Roger was called to dinner. He found himself as shaken and excited by this preliminary move as he had been when he discovered the smugglers in the cove. It was very difficult indeed to do calm justice to the meal set before him, but he managed. He had contrived to get food down without strangling on it and with a calm and indifferent expression while Solange was berating him at the top of her lungs at a dinner party. To eat while his heart was pounding with pleasurable excitement instead of sick rage and shame was not nearly so difficult.
Later, in the early evening, he engaged in his usual desultory conversation with the other customers of the inn. A traveler who bought wine had come on his way south. He began to regale the company with an eyewitness account of the massacre of the king’s Swiss guard and the deposition of Louis XVI. This was apparently not news to the others in the inn, although they listened avidly to the details. But Roger, who had left England on the twelfth of August, had not heard it previously. The events had taken place, he realized, on the tenth and the information had not come to England before he departed. Why he had not heard of it while he traveled south, he could only guess. Either the small towns he stopped at had not yet received word of the events, or the people there had been afraid to talk in front of a stranger.
A lawyer had considerable practice in maintaining an impassive expression, but Roger felt sick with horror. He was no fanatical upholder of monarchy, but he realized this had to be only a first step along a more desperate and ultimately bloody path. England had tried deposing kings. One had finally been executed and the other escaped that fate only by fleeing the country before he was taken. Deposed kings were not conducive to political peace. Even from France, James II had caused much
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