I remember, said Barbara. She turned to them and spoke in her shocking schoolroom French. I am eternally grateful to you for what you did for my husband.
It was difficult. There was a puzzled look on the faces of Marie and the Count; this was nothing like the wife Hornblower had described to them four years ago when he had been a fugitive hidden in their house. They could hardly be expected to know that Maria was dead and that Hornblower had promptly married Barbara, who was as unlike her predecessor as she well could be.
We would do as much again, madame, said the Count. Fortunately there will never be any need.
And Lieutenant Bush? asked Marie of Hornblower. I hope he is well?
He is dead, madame. He was killed in the last month of the war. He was a captain before he died.
Oh!
It was silly to say he had been a captain. For anyone else it would not have been. A naval officer hungered and yearned so inexpressibly for that promotion that speaking of a casual acquaintance one could think his death requited by his captaincy. But not with Bush.
I am sorry, said the Count. He hesitated before he spoke againnow that they had emerged from the nightmare of war it was apprehensively that one asked about old friends who might have been killed. But Brown? That pillar of strength? Hes well?
Perfectly well, M. le Comte. He is my confidential servant at this moment.
We read a little about your escape, said Marie.
In the usual garbled Bonaparte form, added the Count, You took a shipthethe
The Witch of Endor, sir.
Was all this too painful or too pleasant? Memories were crowding in on him, memories of the Château de Graçay, of the escape down the Loire, of the glorious return to England; memories of Bush; and memorieshoney-sweet memoriesof Marie. He met her eyes, and the kindness in them was unfathomable. God! This was unendurable.
But we have not done what we should have done at the very first, said the Count. We have not offered our felicitations, our congratulations, on the recognition your services have received from your country. You are an English lord, and I well know how much that implies. My sincerest congratulations, milord. Nothingnothing can ever give me greater pleasure.
Nor me, said Marie.
Thank you, thank you, said Hornblower. He bowed shyly. It was for him, too, one of the greatest pleasures in his life to see the pride and affection beaming in the old Counts face.
Hornblower became aware that Barbara standing
by had lost the thread of the conversation. He offered her a hurried English translation, and she nodded and smiled to the Countbut the translation was a false move. It would have been better to have let Barbara blunder along with French; once he started interpreting for her the barrier of language was raised far higher, and he was put into the position of intermediary between his wife and his friends, tending to keep her at a distance.
You are enjoying life in Paris, madame? asked Marie.
Very much, thank you, said Barbara.
It seemed to Hornblower as if the two women did not like each other. He plunged into a mention of the possibility of Barbaras going to Vienna; Marie listened apparently in rapture at Barbaras good fortune. Conversation became formal and stilted; Hornblower refused to allow himself to decide that this was a result of Barbaras entry into it, and yet the conclusion formed in his inner consciousness. He wanted to chatter free and unrestrained with Marie and the Count, and somehow it could not be done with Barbara standing by. Relief actually mingled with his regret when the surge of people round them and the approach of their host meant that their group would have to break up. They exchanged addresses; they promised to call on each other, if Barbaras probable departure for Vienna left her time enough. There was a soul-searing glimpse of sadness in Maries eyes as he bowed to her.
In the carriage again, going back to their hotel, Hornblower felt a curious little glow of virtue over the fact that he had suggested that Barbara should go to Vienna without him before they had met the Graçays. Why he should derive any comfort from that knowledge was more than he could possibly imagine, but he hugged the knowledge to him. He sat in his dressing-gown talking to Barbara while Hebe went through the elaborate processes of undressing her and making her hair ready for the night.
When you first told me about Arthurs suggestion, my dear, he said, I hardly realised all that it implied. I am so delighted. You will be Englands first lady. And very properly, too.
You do not wish to accompany me? said Barbara.
I think you would be happier without me, said Hornblower with perfect honesty. Somehow he would spoil her pleasure, he knew, if he had to endure a succession of balls and ballets in Vienna.
And you? asked Barbara. You will be happy at Smallbridge, you think?
As happy as I ever can be without you, dear, said Hornblower, and he meant it.
So far not a word about the Graçays had passed between them. Barbara was commendably free from the vulgar habit which had distressed him so much in his first wife of talking over the people they had just met. They were in bed together, her hands in his, before she mentioned them, and then it was suddenly, with no preliminary fencing, and very much not à propos.