I was thinking, my lord, went on Brown, not wanting to presume, that if I was to continue in your service your lordship might consider engaging Annette as cook.
God bless my soul, said Hornblower.
He mentally looked down a vista a lifetime long of dinners as good as Jeanne cooked. Dinners at Smallbridge had been almost good but most decidedly plain. Smallbridge and French cooking offered a most intriguing study in contrasts. Certainly Smallbridge would be more attractive with Annette as cook. And yet what was he thinking about? What had happened to those doubts and tentative notions about never seeing Smallbridge again? Some such ideas had certainly passed through his mind when he thought about Marie, and yet here he was thinking about Smallbridge and thinking about Annette heading his kitchen. He shook himself out of his reverie.
Of course I can give no decision on the point myself, he said, fencing for time. Her Ladyship will have to be consulted, as you understand, Brown. Have you any alternative in mind?
Plenty, my lord, as long as you are satisfied. Ive thought of starting a small hotelI have all my prize-money saved.
Where?
In London, perhaps, my lord. But maybe in Paris. Or in Rome. I have been discussing it with Felix and Bertrand and Annette.
My God! said Hornblower again. Nothing like this had crossed his mind for a single moment, and yetI have no doubt you would be successful, Brown.
Thank you, my lord.
Tell me, this seems to have been a lightning courtship. Is that so?
Not really, my lord. When I was here last Annette and Iyou understand, my lord.
I do now, said Hornblower.
It was fantastic that Brown, the man who hove the line that saved the Pluto, the man who silenced Colonel Caillard with a single blow of his fist, should be talking calmly about the possibility of opening an hotel in Rome. Actually it was no more fantastic than that he himself should have seriously debated with himself the possibility of becoming a French seigneur, and turning his back on England. He had done that no later than fast night; love for Marie had grown during the last five days even while his passion was indulgedand Hornblower was not the sort of fool to be ignorant of how much that implied.
When are you thinking of marrying, Brown? he asked.
As soon as the law of this country allows, my lord.
Ive no idea how long that means, said Hornblower.
I am finding out, my lord. Will that be all you need at present?
No. Ill get up at oncecant stay in bed after hearing all this exciting news, Brown. Ill come through with a handsome wedding-present.
Thank you, my lord. Ill fetch your hot water, then.
Marie was waiting for him in her boudoir when he was dressed. She kissed him good morning, passed a hand over his smoothly shaven cheeks, and, with her arm over his shoulder, led him to her turret window to show him that the apple trees in the orchard below were showing their first blossoms. It was spring; and it was good to be in love and to be loved in this green and lovely land. He took her white hands in his, and he kissed every finger on them, with a surge of reverent passion. As each day passed he had come to admire her the more, her sweetness of character and the unselfishness of her love. For Hornblower respect and love made a heady mixturehe felt he could kneel to her as to a saint. She was conscious of the passion that was carrying him away, as she was conscious of everything about him.
Oratio, she saidwhy should it stir him so frightfully to hear that ridiculous name of his pronounced in that fashion?
He clung to her, and she held him and comforted
a man of peace, a man of indolence, and the cataract was not a thing that had nearly killed him.
It seemed perfectly natural when the Count came in with good news.
The Count dArtois has defeated Bonaparte in a battle in the south, he said. Bonaparte is a fugitive, and will soon be a prisoner. The news is from Paris.
That was as it should be; the wars were over.
I think we can light a bonfire tonight, said the Count, and the bonfire blazed and toasts were drunk to the King.
But it was no later than next morning that Brown, as he put the breakfast tray beside Hornblowers bed, announced that the Count wished to speak to him as early as convenient, and he had hardly uttered the words when the Count came in, haggard and dishevelled in his dressing-gown.
Pardon this intrusion, said the Counteven at that moment he could not forget his good mannersbut I could not wait. There is bad news. The very worst.
Hornblower could only stare and wait, while the Count gathered his strength to tell his news. It took an effort to say the words.
Bonaparte is in Paris, said the Count. The King has fled and Bonaparte is Emperor again. All France has fallen to him.
But the battle he had lost?
Rumourliesall lies. Bonaparte is Emperor again.
It took time to understand all that this implied. It meant war again, that was certain. Whatever the other Great Powers might do, England could never tolerate the presence of that treacherous and mighty enemy across the Channel. England and France would be at each others throats once more. Twenty-two years ago the wars had started; it seemed likely that it would be another twenty-two years before Bonaparte could be pulled from his throne again. There would be another twenty-two years of misery and slaughter. The prospect was utterly hideous.