“No!” said Hornblower, in a roar. He had kept the lid on his feelings for so long and so tightly that the explosion was violent when it came.
“You’ll deprive me of the greatest thing that has ever happened to me?” said Barbara, a hint of ice edging the words.
Hornblower fought down his feelings. It would be easier to give way — ever so easy. But no, he would not. Could not. Yet Barbara was quite right about its being a wonderful thing. To be hostess to a European Congress, to help mould the future of the world — and then, on the other hand, Hornblower had no wish whatever to be a member, and an unimportant member at that, of the Wellesley clan. He had been captain of a ship too long. He did not like politics, not even politics on a European scale. He did not want to kiss the hands of Hungarian countesses, and exchange inanities with Russian grand dukes. That had been fun in the old days when his professional reputation hinged on some such success, as it had done. But he needed more of a motive than the mere maintenance of his reputation as a beau.
Quarrels in a carriage always seemed to reach a climax just as the drive ended. The carriage had halted and porters in the Wellington livery were opening the door before Hornblower had had time either to explain or make amends. As they walked into the Embassy Hornblower’s apprehensive side glances revealed that Barbara’s colour was high and her eyes dangerously bright. So they remained during the whole of the reception; Hornblower looked across the room at her whenever he could, and every time she was clearly in high spirits, or laughing with the groups in conversation with her, tapping with her fan. Was she flirting? The red coats and the blue coats, the black coats and the green coats, that assembled round her bent their shoulders in obvious deference to her. Every glance Hornblower took seemed to increase his resentment.
But he fought it down, determined to make amends.
“You had better go to Vienna, dear,” he said, as they were once more in the carriage on their way to the Polignacs’. “Arthur needs you — it’s your duty.”
“And you?” Barbara’s tone was still chilly.
“You don’t need me. The skeleton at the feast, dear. I’ll go to Smallbridge.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Barbara. Proud as she was, she resented a little having to be beholden to anyone. To ask permission was bad enough; to receive grudging permission was dreadful.
Yet here they were at the Polignacs’.
“Milord and milady Hornblower,” roared the major-domo.
They paid their respects to the Prince, received their hosts’ and hostess’s greetings. What in the world — ? What — ? Hornblower’s head was spinning. His heart was pounding, and there was a roaring in his ears like when he had battled for his life in the waters of the Loire. The whole glittering room was seemingly banked in fog, save for a single face. Marie was looking at him across the room, a troubled smile on her lips. Marie! Horablower swept his hand over his face, forced himself to think clearly as he had sometimes had to do when exhausted in battle. Marie! Not so many months before his marriage to Barbara he had told Marie he loved her, and he had been on the verge of sincerity when he said it. And she had told him she loved him, and he had felt her tears on his face. Marie the tender, the devoted, the sincere. Marie, who had needed him, whose memory he had betrayed to marry Barbara.
He forced himself to cross the room to her, to kiss with simple formality the hand she offered. That troubled smile was still on her lips; she had looked like that when — when — when he had selfishly taken all she had to give, like some thoughtless child claiming a sacrifice from a loving mother. How could he meet her eyes again? And yet he did. They looked each other over with mock whimsicality. Hornblower had the impression of something vivid and vital. Marie was dressed in cloth of gold. Her eyes seemed to burn into him — that was no careless metaphor. Mentally he tried to cling to Barbara, like a shipwrecked sailor to a broken mast tossing in the surf. Barbara slim and elegant; and Marie warm and opulent. Barbara in white which did not do her justice, Marie in gold. Barbara’s blue eyes, sparkling, and Marie’s brown eyes, warm and tender. Barbara’s hair fair and almost brown; Marie’s, golden and almost auburn. It did not do to think about Barbara while looking at Marie.
Here was the Count, quizzically kindly, awaiting his attention — the kindliest man in all the world, whose three sons had died for France, and who had told Hornblower once that he felt towards him as towards a son. Hornblower clasped hands with him in an outpouring of affection. The introductions were not easy. It was not easy to introduce his wife and his mistress.
“Lady Hornblower — Mme la Vicomtesse de Gracay. Barbara, my dear — M. le Comte de Gracay.”
Were they sizing each other up, these two women? Were they measuring swords, his wife and his mistress, the woman whom he had publicly chosen and the one he had privately loved?
“It was M. le Comte,” said Hornblower, feverishly, “and his daughter-in-law who helped me escape from France. They hid me until the pursuit was over.”
“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 again — now 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? He’s well?”
“Perfectly well, M. le Comte. He is my confidential servant at this moment.”
