A Close Run Thing

said Combermere with a smile. ‘Wait here one moment,’ he added, leaving the room by a side door.

Some minutes later he reappeared, still smiling: ‘The duke wishes to have words with you. Come!’

The commander-in-chief’s room was, if anything, even more spartan than his cavalry commander’s; but he, too, smiled readily as Hervey entered, and stood to offer his hand. ‘Sit, if you please, Mr Hervey. Will you have some coffee, or chocolate — or perhaps you would prefer Madeira?’ he asked, gesturing towards an ADC standing by for the purpose.

Hervey saw no reason for restraint: ‘Chocolate, if you please, your Grace.’

‘Now,’ began the duke, after waiting for the ADC to leave. ‘Lord Uxbridge has sent me a long dispatch from his sickbed, and in it he recounts the signal part that you played in bringing the Prussians to the field at Waterloo. And Baron Muffling has acquainted me with the advice you gave to Prince Blucher. It was well judged, Mr Hervey — very well judged, for their opening fire, even at so extreme a range, gave notice of hostile intent and thwarted Bonaparte’s stratagem.’ The duke paused and took a sip of his coffee. ‘What you do not know, in all probability, is that the French will to fight appears to have been dealt a mortal blow thereby, for since they believed the firing to be coming from Grouchy’s men the word spread rapidly that Grouchy had turned traitor. Bonaparte was hoist well and truly with his own petard. You may have conceived, on your own account, that the battle was a near-run thing, Mr Hervey. Well, indeed it was — the closest-run thing you ever saw!’ The duke paused again to sip some more. Hervey was transported with pride, scarcely able to contain his anticipation of the recognition which this audience must be presaging. ‘Now,’ continued the duke, with a cautionary inflection which brought up short Hervey’s flight of fancy, ‘this all amounts to a situation of some delicacy. You may be aware that although Prince Blucher and I share the very best of relations, it is not quite that way with General von Gneisenau. Indeed, in the very highest matters of state things are not as they should be.’

Hervey nodded his understanding.

‘I very much regret, Mr Hervey, that I dare not make any recognition of what transpired with the Prussians at Waterloo, and therefore of your part in it. We must not say anything which in the least part suggests that the Prussians did not make all speed, and of their own volition. And that they fired on debouching from the forest entirely out of their ardour to engage the enemy. I must swear you to absolute confidence in this matter: it is known to but a handful of people.’

‘I understand, sir,’ he replied, almost choking on the words.

‘One more thing, Mr Hervey,’ continued the duke, his expression now as intense as when they had first exchanged those few words at the convent in Toulouse. ‘Your service to the de Chantonnays. I am well pleased to learn that my instructions to protect the civil population have been so punctiliously observed.’

Hervey returned the look quizzically.

‘The de Chantonnays are staunchly Bourbon. My chief of intelligence, Colonel Grant, has much cause to praise their assistance these several past years. Am I to understand, too, that you have in your safekeeping a ring for the count?’

‘That is so, sir.’

‘And do you bear it with you, this instant?’

‘I do, sir,’ he replied.

‘Then I think you may soon be able to discharge your obligation in that respect. Colonel Grant will be able to take you to the count: he is here, in Paris. And now, my boy,’ he declared, rising and holding out his hand, the smile once more returned, ‘you have my thanks again, and I wish you good fortune: I am certain you shall have it!’

* * *

In Lord Combermere’s office, with more chocolate, Hervey tried to reconcile his exhilaration and disappointment.

‘What precisely did the duke say at the end?’ asked the general.

‘He thanked me — and wished me good fortune, I think, sir.’ He could scarcely remember the flow of things, let alone the exact words.

‘There was no mention of … reward!’

‘None that I recall, sir; no, none whatever.’

Lord Combermere looked surprised, though Hervey did not notice. ‘Lord George Irvine tells me he is to send you back to England with papers for your colonel. I should be very much obliged if you would deliver this to the adjutant-general at the Horse Guards: it is of a routine but sensitive nature, as I understand,’ he said, holding up a sealed dispatch, ‘and this other to Lord George, please. I will apprise you generally of its contents: it commends your service at Waterloo, without mentioning anything of the Prussians, and expresses the duke’s hope that you might be advanced in regimental seniority or suchlike. I am sure these things augur well for the future, Mr Hervey.’ And with that, and a warm handshake, Lord Combermere bade him farewell.

Hervey rode back to Clichy more thoroughly confounded than he supposed he had ever been. He presumed this express wish of the duke’s must annul all bars to his captaincy, but Combermere had not mentioned anything of field promotion. And, since he was no nearer possessing the amount required for its purchase, the prize looked distinctly hollow. He had never expected garlands for what he had done, but their absence after the promise implied in the duke’s eulogy he felt cruelly.

The Following Day

Colonel Grant was an unlikely-looking spymaster. His features seemed too distinct, his gait too obviously military and his voice too loud. But of his business there was, by all accounts, no greater practitioner, and if the duke had felt himself humbugged by Bonaparte’s essay into Belgium, then not one portion of blame would he allow this gallant officer to bear. The colonel arrived at ten o’clock at the billets of the 6th Light Dragoons and, to intense speculation among those officers who recognized him, he and Hervey left by carriage for the house near the Tuileries which was the Paris residence of the comte de Chantonnay. Footmen attended their arrival, and Hervey was at once spellbound by the sumptuousness — the fine paintings, hangings, crystal, and gilded furniture, unaccountable survivors of both the revolution and the recent occupation. And he could not but wonder at Sister Maria de Chantonnay’s willing exchange of all this for her frugal orders. There was champagne, Neapolitan confections — and music.

‘Do you like Soler, monsieur?’ enquired the count in the clearest of English.

‘If this be his music, then, yes, but—’

‘Spanish — he was Spanish, and a Franciscan. Perhaps that is why he writes with such beauty and lightness of touch. Better even than Scarlatti, do you not think? Do you hear those appogiaturas?’

Hervey nodded admiringly as the bewigged musician ran breath-takingly up and down the scales of the eight-octave harpsichord in the corner of the grand salon.

‘My daughter would approve only of Bach, however,’ added the count with mock despair. ‘His music is much more attuned with her Carmelite austerity!’

‘Well, Mr Hervey,’ interrupted Colonel Grant, ‘perhaps it would be appropriate now for you to return the ring to the count?’

Hervey made to take the ring from his pocket, but then paused. He looked at the two men awkwardly and swallowed hard. ‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ he began, ‘but I swore a solemn oath that I would give it only into the hand of the comte de Chantonnay himself.’

The count looked puzzled, and Colonel Grant impatient. ‘Mr Hervey, do you suppose that I, as the duke’s —?’

‘No, sir, I do not suppose anything. And that is why I must not suppose an identity without its first being reasonably established.’

Colonel Grant flushed with anger, but the count stayed him: ‘No, no — it is well that Mr Hervey is so conscientious in the discharge of his oath. I may assure you that my daughter will have placed the heaviest of obligations on him in this respect. What may I do to convince you that I am my daughter’s father, sir?’

Hervey hesitated. ‘I, that is …’

‘Perhaps you might take her own assurance?’ suggested the count.