She had called him that before in little broken tones when they had been alone together. Just to hear her say it again sent a wave of passionate emotion through Hornblower’s body. He was filled with love — the sort of love of which he was capable. He was not conscious yet of any wickedness about his action in coming thus to torment Marie again. He had been overborne by his own wild longing — and perhaps in his excuse it could also be pleaded that his silly modesty made him incapable of realising how much a woman could love him. Here came Felix with wine; the Count raised his glass.
“To your happy return, ‘Oratio,” he said.
The simple words called up a momentary pageant in Hornblower’s memory, a sort of procession of returns, like the procession of kings in Macbeth’s imagination. A sailor’s life was a chain of departures and homecomings. Home-comings to Maria now dead and gone, homecomings to Barbara — and now this homecoming to Marie. It was not well to think of Barbara while he was with Marie; he had thought of Marie while he was with Barbara.
“I suppose Brown has made himself comfortable, Felix?” he asked. A good master always sees after the wellbeing of his servant — but this question was also intended to change his own train of thought.
“Yes, milord” said Felix. “Brown has made himself at home.”
Felix’s face was devoid of expression, his voice devoid of tone. Were they too much so? Was there some subtle implication about Brown of which Hornblower should be aware? It was curious. Yet Brown was still the model servant when Hornblower found him in his room on withdrawing there to make ready for dinner. The portmanteaux and dressing-case were unpacked, the black dress-coat — London’s latest fashion — was laid out with the shirt and cravat. A cheerful fire burned in the bedroom grate.
“Are you glad to be here again, Brown?”
“Very glad indeed, my lord.”
An accomplished linguist indeed was Brown — he could speak with fluency the language of the servant, the language of the lower deck, the language of the country lanes and of the London alleys, and French besides. It was faintly irritating that he never mixed them up, thought Hornblower, tying his cravat.
In the upper hall Hornblower met Marie, about to descend to dinner like himself. They both of them stood stock still for a moment, as though each of them was the last person in the world the other expected to see. Then Hornblower bowed and offered his arm, and Marie curtsied and took it. The hand she laid on his arm was trembling, and the touch of it sent a wave of warmth against him as though he were passing by an open furnace door.
“My darling! My love!” whispered Hornblower, driven almost beyond his self-control.
The hand on his arm fluttered, but Marie continued un-faltering to walk on down the stair.
Dinner was a cheerful function, for fat Jeanne the cook had surpassed herself, and the Count was in his best form, droll and serious in turns, witty and well-informed. They discussed the policy of the Bourbon Government, wondered about the decisions being reached at the Congress of Vienna, and spared a few passing thoughts for Bonaparte in Elba.
“Before we left Paris,” remarked the Count, “there was talk that he was too dangerous a neighbour there. It was being suggested that he should be transferred to a safer place — your island of St. Helena in the South Atlantic was named in that connection.”
“Perhaps that would be better,” agreed Hornblower.
“Europe will be in a ferment as long as that man can be the centre of intrigues,” said Marie. “Why should he be allowed to unsettle us all?”
“The Tsar is sentimental, and was his friend,” explained the Count with a shrug. “The Emperor of Austria is, after all, his father-in-law.”
“Should they indulge their preferences at the expense of France — of civilisation?” asked Marie, bitterly.
Women always seemed to be more hotly partisan than men.
“I don’t think Bonaparte constitutes a very active danger,” said Hornblower, complacently.
As the Count sipped his coffee after dinner his eyes wandered longingly towards the card-table.
“Have you lost your old skill at whist, ‘Oratio?” he asked. “There are only the three of us, but I thought we might make use of a dummy. In some ways — heretical though the opinion may appear — I feel that the game with a dummy is the more scientific.”
Nobody mentioned how Bush used to play with them, but they all thought of him. They cut and shuffled and dealt, cut and shuffled and dealt. There was some truth in what the Count said about whist with a dummy being more scientific; certainly it allowed for a closer calculation of chances. The Count played with all his old verve, Marie seemingly with all her old solid skill, and Hornblower sought to display his usual scientific precision. Yet something was not quite right. Dummy whist was somehow unsettling — perhaps it was because the need for changing seats as the deal passed broke the continuity of the play. There was no question of simply losing oneself in the game, as Hornblower usually could do. He was vastly conscious of Marie, now beside him, now opposite him, and twice he made minor slips in play. At the end of the second rubber Marie folded her hands on her lap.
“I think I have played all I can this evening,” she said. “I am sure ‘Oratio is as much a master of piquet as he is of whist. Perhaps you can entertain each other with that while I go to bed.”
The Count was on his feet with his usual deferential politeness, asking if she felt quite well, and, when she assured him that she was merely tired, escorting her to the door exactly as he would have escorted a queen.
“Good night, ‘Oratio,” said Marie.
“Good night, madame,” said Horatio, standing by the card-table.
One glance passed between them — one glance, enduring less than one-tenth of a second, but long enough for each to tell the other all.
“I trust Marie was correct in her assumption that you are a master of piquet, ‘Oratio,” said the Count, returning from the door. “She and I have played much together in default of whist. But I am taking it for granted that you wish to play? How inconsiderate of me! Please —”
Hornblower hastened to assure the Count that he would like nothing better.
