The only line of escape which now seemed to offer was an appeal to the British Ambassador, the Duke of Dorset. It was part of His Grace's function to protect the interests of all British subjects resident or travelling in France. He could take the matter up with the King, through his Foreign Minister, soliciting a cancellation of the lettre de cachet, or at least a further investigation of the case, if there were reasonable grounds for supposing that there had been a miscarriage of justice.
But Roger realized with most distressing clarity that although he might plead a miscarriage of justice in the event of his being condemned for murder, he certainly could not do so if he were imprisoned for duelling; and it was entirely outside any Ambassador's sphere to seek to protect any of his nationals who had admittedly broken the laws of the country to which he was accredited.
There was still one way out. Via the Ambassador, he could send a letter to Mr. Pitt, begging his intervention. If the Prime Minister chose to do so he could instruct the Ambassador to use his own discretion as to the means he should employ to secure the prisoner's release. The Duke of Dorset, and his extremely able First Secretary, Mr. Daniel Hailes, both knew that Roger was a secret agent, and they would then resort to extreme measures. Dorset could declare that Roger was a new member of his staff who had just been sent out to him, and had not yet been officially presented owing to his recent arrival in France. He would then claim for him diplomatic status with its accompanying immunities. These did not cover arrest for felony, but duelling had never been regarded in the same light as other crimes. There was little doubt that the King would surrender Roger to the Ambassador rather than give umbrage to the Court of St. James; but at the same time it was certain that Dorset would be informed that this new member of his staff was non persona grata at Versailles and must be sent back to England forthwith.
The thought of the humiliation entailed made Roger's bronzed face flush. How would he ever be able to face Mr. Pitt after having bungled matters so badly ? That his arrest was not altogether his own fault would prove no excuse, for he had laid himself open to it originally; and the Prime Minister had every right to expect that any agent he employed should have wit enough to get out of trouble without raising an annoying diplomatic issue. He would be sent on no more missions, never again be let into the fascinating secrets of high policy, or enjoy the travelling as a rich English milor' that he had so come to love. Instead he would be, as his father, Admiral Brook, would have put it, "on the beach" at twenty-one, with an income quite inadequate to support the habits he had acquired and entirely untrained for any profession or profitable occupation.
Promptly he resolved that nothing short of actually finding his life in jeopardy would induce him to squeal to Mr. Pitt for help. If there was no escape it would be better to endure a spell of prison, and leave it to Dorset or Hailes to ask for his release when they felt that sufficient time had elapsed for King Louis to be mollified enough to grant him a pardon on normal grounds. But the thought that it was unlikely that the King would be inclined to do so for at least a year was anything but a rosy one.
For the better part of two hours Roger strove to interest himself again in de Vaudreuil's books, but he found that his mind was not registering the words he read, and that on their pages "horrid visions of thick stone walls with iron grilles set high in them kept intruding themselves, so he decided that he would take advantage of the Count's permission to go out.
First he wandered disconsolately for a little while through some of the lofty public rooms and corridors, but their rich furnishings and intricately woven tapestries made no appeal to him today; and he did not even raise or lower his eyes as he passed through the Galerie Henri II, to admire again the exquisite workmanship by which long-dead craftsmen had mirrored the elaborate design of the ceiling—the royal arms of France entwined with the moon-centred cipher of the King's mistress, the beautiful Diane de Poitiers—by an inlay of rare, richly coloured woods which formed the parquet of the floor.
After a while he turned back, stood gloomily for a few minutes on the balcony where Madame de Maintenon had induced Louis XIV to sign the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, which had outlawed all the Protestants in France, then went down the main staircase and out into the garden.
Still unheeding his surroundings his footsteps carried him round to the Fountain Court, and he noticed idly that a group of ladies at its open end were gathered at the edge of the pond amusing themselves feeding the carp. As he approached one of them turned, caught sight of him and, leaving her companions, began to walk in his direction. Even at that distance he needed no second glance to recognize the lady's intensely black hair and striking eyebrows as those of the Senorita d'Aranda.
When they arrived within a few yards of one another she rippled her full skirts of lilac silk in a graceful curtsy and he swept his tricorn hat past the ground in an arc that paralleled his forward-thrust leg. From the instant he had recognized her his quick brain had been speculating on whether she might have good or ill news for him, and how he might gain some advantage from this chance meeting in view of her closeness to the Queen; so it was only on lifting his head from his bow that he noticed a strange little figure that had come to a halt a few feet in her rear.
It was a boy of about ten, but a boy the like of which Roger had never seen. The child's eyes and hair were as black as those of the Senorita, his nose was considerably more hooked, and they both had high cheekbones ; but there the resemblance ended; his lips were thick and his skin a deep red-brown. He was clad in a kilt and mantle beautifully embroidered with an assortment of strange intricate symbols in rich colours, wore ahead-dress of bright feathers and carried a thin-bladed, dangerous-looking little hatchet stuck in his gilded leather girdle. Although Roger had never set eyes on one before he knew from pictures he had seen that the little fellow must be some kind of Indian from the Americas.
"Good day, Monsieur de Breuc," said the Senorita, regarding him with an amused smile. "You seem quite taken aback at the sight of my page. Do you not think him a handsome poppet ?"
It was true enough that the boy had distinction in every line of his thin, eagle-beaked face and proud bearing. Quickly recovering his manners, Roger replied hastily: "Indeed he is, Senorita. I trust you will forgive me for having stared at him, but 'tis the first time I have ever seen one of his race, and it took me by surprise to see a lady like yourself accompanied by such an unusual attendant."
She shrugged. "Madame du Barri had her Blackamoor, so why should I not have my Indian ? Though fittingly, I feel, her Zamore was a vulgar little imp, whereas my Quetzal is an admirably behaved child and the son of an Aztec Prince." Turning, she spoke in Spanish to the boy, telling him to make his bow to the handsome gentleman.
Instead of returning the bow Roger held out his hand English fashion. After a slight hesitation Quetzal placed his small red hand in Roger's long one, and said something in Spanish to his mistress.
"What did he say ?" Roger asked.
The Spanish girl gave a low, rich laugh. "He says that he admires your blue eyes, Monsieur, and wishes he had jewels of their colour to put into his head-dress."