“That is delightful,” said the Count, shuffling the cards with his slender white fingers. “I am a fortunate man.”
He was fortunate at least in his play that night, taking his usual bold risks and being rewarded by unpredictable good luck in his discards. His minor seiziemes outranked Hornblower’s major quints, a quatorze of knaves saved him when Hornblower had three aces, three kings and three queens, and twice carte blanche rescued him from disaster in face of Hornblower’s overwhelming hands. When Hornblower was strong, the Count was lucky; and when Hornblower was weak the Count was overpoweringly strong. At the conclusion of the third
“I fear this has not been very interesting for you,” said the Count remorsefully. “This is a discourteous way to treat a guest.”
“I would rather lose in this house,” said Hornblower, perfectly truthfully, “than win in any other.”
The Count smiled with pleasure.
“That is too high a compliment,” he said. “And yet I can only say in reply that with you in this house I care not whether I win or lose. I trust that I shall have the further good fortune of your making a long stay here?”
“Like the fate of Europe,” said Hornblower, “that depends on the Congress of Vienna.”
“You know this house is yours,” said the Count, earnestly. “Marie and I both wish you to look on it as your own.”
“You are too good, sir,” said Hornblower. “May I ring for my candle?”
“Allow me,” said the Count, hastening to the bell-cord. “I trust you are not overtired after your journey? Felix, milord is retiring.”
Up the oaken stairs with their carved panelling, Felix hobbling goutily ahead with the candle. A sleepy Brown was waiting for him in the sitting-room of the little suite, to be dismissed at once when Hornblower announced his intention of putting himself to bed. That door there, inconspicuous in the corner, led to the hall outside Marie’s suite in the turret — how well Hornblower remembered it. Generations of the Ladons, Counts of Gracay, had conducted intrigues in the chateau; perhaps kings and princes had passed through that door on the way to their lights-of- love.
Marie was waiting for him, weighted down with longing, heavy with love, tender and sweet. To sink into her arms was to sink into peace and happiness, illimitable peace, like that of a sunset-lit sea. The rich bosom on which he could pillow his head made him welcome; its fragrance comforted while it intoxicated. She held him, she loved him, she wept with happiness. She had no more than half his heart, she knew. He was cruel, unthinking, selfish, and yet this bony, slender body that lay in her arms was everything in the world to her. It was monstrous that he should come back to claim her like this. He had made her suffer before, and she knew her suffering in the past would be nothing compared with her suffering that lay in the future. Yet that was his way. That was how she loved him. Time went so fast; she had only this little moment before a lifetime of unhappiness to come. Oh, it was so urgent! She caught him to her madly, crying out with passion, crying out to time to stand still. It seemed to do so at that moment. Time stood still while the world whirled round her.
CHAPTER XVIII
“May I speak to you, my lord?” asked Brown.
He had put the breakfast tray by the bed, and had drawn aside the window curtains. Spring sunshine was gleaming on the distant Loire. Brown had waited respectfully until Hornblower had drunk his first cup of coffee and was coming slowly back to the world.
“What is it?” asked Hornblower, blinking over at him where he stood against the wall. Brown’s attitude was not a usual one. Some of the deferential bearing of the gentleman’s servant had been replaced by the disciplined erectness of the old days, when a self-respecting sailor held his head up and his shoulders back whether he was being condemned to the cat or commended for gallantry.
“What is it?” asked Hornblower again, consumed with curiosity.
He had had one moment of wild misgiving, wondering if Brown were going to be such a frantic fool as to say something about his relations with Marie, but the misgiving vanished as he realised the absurdity and impossibility of such a thing. Yet Brown was acting strangely — one might almost think he was feeling shy.
“Well, sir — I mean my lord,” (that was the first time Brown had slipped over Hornblower’s title since the peerage was conferred,) “I don’t know rightly if it’s anything your lordship would wish to know about. I don’t want to presume, sir — my lord.”
“Oh, spit it out, man,” said Hornblower testily. “And call me ‘sir’ if it’s any comfort to you.”
“It’s this way, my lord. I’m wanting to get married.”
“Good God!” said Hornblower. He had a vague idea that Brown had been a terror for women, and the possibility of his marrying had never crossed his mind. He hastened to say what he thought would be appropriate. “Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Annette, my lord. Jeanne and Bertrand’s daughter. And I am the lucky one, my lord.”
“Jeanne’s daughter? Oh, of course. The pretty one with the dark hair.”
Hornblower thought about a lively French girl marrying a sturdy Englishman like Brown, and for the life of him he could see no reason against it at all. Brown would be a better husband than most — it certainly would be a lucky woman who got him.
“You’re a man of sense, Brown,” he said. “You needn’t ask me about these things. I’m sure you’ve made a wise choice, and you have all my best wishes for your happiness and joy.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“If Annette can cook as well as her mother,” Hornblower went on meditatively, “you’re a lucky man indeed.”
“That was another thing I wanted to say to you, my lord. She’s a cook second to none, young though she is. Jeanne says so herself, and if she says so —”
“We can be sure of it,” agreed Hornblower.
