“The Count d’Artois 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 Hornblower’s 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 Count — even at that moment he could not forget his good manners — “but 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?”
“Rumour — lies — all 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 other’s 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.
“How did it happen?” asked Hornblower, more to gain time than because he wanted to know.
The Count spread his delicate hands in a hopeless gesture.
“Not a shot was fired,” he said. “The army went over to him
“But the people do not want him,” protested Hornblower. “We all know that.”
“The people’s wishes do not weigh against the army’s,” said the Count. “The news has come with the usurper’s first decrees. The classes of 1815 and 1816 are to be called out. The Household troops are disbanded, the Imperial Guard is to be reconstituted. Bonaparte is ready to fight Europe again.”
Hornblower vaguely saw himself once more on the deck of a ship, weighed down with responsibility, encompassed by danger, isolated and friendless. It was a bleak prospect.
A tap on the door heralded Marie’s entrance, in her dressing-gown, with her magnificent hair over her shoulders.
“You have heard the news, my dear?” asked the Count. He made no comment either on her presence or on her appearance.
“Yes,” said Marie. “We are in danger.”
“We are indeed,” said the Count. “All of us.”
So appalling had been the news that Hornblower had not yet had leisure to contemplate its immediate personal implications. As an officer of the British Navy, he would be seized and imprisoned immediately. Not only that, but Bonaparte had intended years ago to try him and shoot him on charges of piracy. He would carry that intention into effect — tyrants have long memories. And the Count, and Marie?
“Bonaparte knows now that you helped me escape,” said Hornblower. “He will never forgive that.”
“He will shoot me if he can catch me,” said the Count; he made no reference to Marie, but he glanced towards her. Bonaparte would shoot her too.
“We must get away,” said Hornblower. “The country cannot be settled under Bonaparte yet. With fast horses we can reach the coast —”
He took his bedclothes in his hand to cast them off, restraining himself in the nick of time out of deference to Marie’s presence.
“I shall be dressed in ten minutes,” said Marie.
As the door closed behind her and the Count, Hornblower hurled himself out of bed shouting for Brown. The transition from the sybarite to the man of action took a few moments, but only a few. As he tore off his nightshirt he conjured up before his mind’s eye the map of France, visualising the roads and ports. They could reach La Rochelle over the mountains in two days of hard riding. He hauled up his trousers. The Count had a great name — no one would venture to arrest him or his party without direct orders from Paris; with bluff and self-confidence they could get through. There were two hundred golden napoleons in the secret compartment of his portmanteau — maybe the Count had more. It was enough for bribery. They could bribe a fisherman to take them out to sea — they could steal a boat, for that matter.
It was humiliating thus to run like rabbits at Bonaparte’s first reappearance; it was hardly consonant with the dignity of a peer and a commodore, but his first duty was to preserve his life and his usefulness. A dull rage against Bonaparte, the wrecker of the peace, was growing within him, but was still far from mastering him as yet. It was resentment as yet, rather than rage; and his sullen resignation regarding the change in conditions was slowly giving way to tentative wonderings regarding whether he could not play a more active part in the opening of the struggle than merely running away to fight another day. Here he was in France, in the heart of his enemy’s country. Surely he could strike a blow here that could be felt. As he hauled on his riding-boots he spoke to Brown.
“What about your wife?” he asked.
“I hoped she could come with us, my lord,” said Brown, soberly.
