Your friends the Graçays are very charming, she said.
Are they not all that I told you about them? said Hornblower, immensely relieved that in telling Barbara of his adventures he had made no attempt to skirt round that particular episode, even though he had not told her allby no means all. Then a little clumsily he went on. The Count is one of the most delightful and sweetest-natured men who ever walked.
She is beautiful, said Barbara, pursuing undeflected her own train of thought. Those eyes, that complexion, that hair. So often women with reddish hair and brown eyes have poor complexions.
Hers is perfect, said Hornblowerit seemed the best thing to do to agree.
Why has she not married again? wondered Barbara. She must have been married very young, and she has been a widow for some years, you say?
Since Aspern, he explained. In 1809. One son was killed at Austerlitz, one died in Spain, and her husband, Marcel, at Aspern.
Nearly six years ago said Barbara.
Hornblower tried to explain; how Marie was not of blue blood herself, how whatever fortune she had would certainly revert to the Graçays on her remarriage, how their retired life gave her small chance of meeting possible husbands.
They will be moving much in good society now, commented Barbara, thoughtfully. And some time afterwards, à propos of nothing, she added, Her mouth is too wide.
Later that night, with Barbara breathing quietly beside him, Hornblower thought over what Barbara had said. He did not like to think about Maries remarriage, which was perfectly ridiculous of him. He would almost never see her again. He might call once, before he returned to England, but that would be all. Soon he would be back in Smallbridge, in his own house, with Richard, and with English servants to wait
on him. Life in future might be dull and safe, but it would be happy. Barbara would not be in Vienna for always. With his wife and his son he would lead a sane, orderly, and useful life. That was a good resolution on which to close his eyes and compose himself to sleep.
Chapter XVII
He had caught himself talking to Brown, harking back to old experiences, reminiscing, and that would never do. He had his dignity still to consider; no strong man could be weak enough to yearn for activity and interest. And Brown had talked eagerly about France, about the Château of Graçay, about their escape down the Loiremaybe it was Browns fault that Hornblowers thoughts had turned more and more towards Graçay. As a fugitive he had found a welcome there, a home, friendship, and love. He thought about the Countit may have been because his conscience troubled him, but undoubtedly at first it was the Count that he thought about rather than Mariewith his courtesy and kindliness and general lovableness. With Bush dead it was likely that the Count was the man of whom Hornblower was fondest in all the world. The spiritual tie of which Hornblower had been conscious years ago was still in existence. Under the surface of his thoughts there may have been a tumultuous undercurrent of thoughts about Marie, but it was not apparent to him. All he knew was that one morning the pressure of his restlessness had become overwhelming. He fingered in his pocket the Counts pleasant letter, received some days ago, telling him of his and his daughter-in-laws return to Graçay and repeating his invitation to come and stay. Then he had shouted to Brown to pack clothes for both of them and to have horses put to the chaise.
Two nights ago they had slept at the Sign of the Siren in Montargis; last night at the post-house at Briare. Now here they were driving along a lonely road overlooking the Loire, which ran like a grey ocean at their right hand, wide and desolate, with forlorn willows keeping a desperate foothold waist deep in the flood. Lashing rain beat down upon the leather tilt of the chaise, thundering down upon the taut material with a noise that made conversation difficult. Hornblower had Brown beside him in the chaise; the unfortunate postilion, hat drawn down over his ears to meet the collar of his cape, riding the near-side horse in front of them. Brown sat with folded arms, the model gentlemans servant, ready to converse politely if Hornblower showed any inclination to do so, keeping a discreet silence until addressed. He had managed every detail of the journey remarkably wellnot that it would be difficult to manage any journey in France for an English milord. Every post-house keeper, however insolent in his office, was reduced to instant deference at the mention of Hornblowers rank.
Hornblower felt Brown stiffen beside him, and then peer forward through the driving rain.
The Bec dAllier, said Brown, without being spoken to first.
Hornblower could see where the grey Allier joined the grey Loire at an acute angleall this country was under moderate floods. There was something a little odd about having a coxswain who spoke French with the facility and good accent of Brown, who must have made (of course Hornblower knew he had) the best use of his months of living below stairs at Graçay when they had been escaped prisoners of war togetherthey and Bush. Hornblower could feel a mounting excitement in Brown, comparable with his own, and that was hard to explain in Browns case. There was no reason for Brown to feel the same sort of homesickness for Graçay that Hornblower felt.