was telling himself that he would greatly prefer not to be served by a flea-bitten footman. The conversation languished, and Hornblower turned back to the Countess.
“Do pictures interest monsieur very much?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Hornblower politely. “The picture gallery in this palace is very fine. You have not seen it yet?”
“I have not yet had that pleasure.”
“This evening, after the royal party has retired, I could show it to you. Unless you would rather join one of the card tables?”
“I would much prefer to see pictures,” said Hornblower. His laugh rang a little loud even in his own ears.
“Then if, after the royal party has withdrawn, you are by the door on the far side of the room, I shall show you the way.”
“That will be delightful, madame.”
They were drinking toasts at the head of the table—for the first one everyone had to stand while they drank the health of the Prince of Sweden, and after that conversation perforce became disjointed with other toasts to be drunk, announced by a gigantic official with a colossal voice—Stentor with Hercules’ frame, said Hornblower to himself, pleased with the classical touch—who stood behind the Tsar’s chair. Between toasts there was music; not orchestral music, but vocal music from an unaccompanied male choir, seemingly of hundreds of voices which filled the vast room with their din. Hornblower heard it with the faint but growing irritation of the completely tone-deaf. It was a relief when the music ceased and everyone stood once more while the royal party withdrew through a doorway near the head of the table, and no sooner had the door closed after them than the women went out too, ushered through the far door by Madame Kotchubey.
“
The men began to gather in groups along the table while footmen hastened in with coffee and cordials; Wychwood, his bearskin still under his arm, made his way round to Hornblower. His face was redder than ever; his eyes, if it were possible, stuck out even farther from his head.
“The Swedes’ll fight if Russia will,” said Wychwood, in a grating whisper. “I have that direct from Basse, who was with Bernadotte all day.”
Then he passed on and Hornblower heard his remarkable French being practised on a uniformed group higher up the table. The room was unbearably hot, presumably because of the infinity of candles alight in it; some of the men were already beginning to drift away through the door where the women had preceded them. Hornblower drank his coffee and rose to his feet, transferring his cocked hat once more from his knees to under his arm. The room he entered must have been the counterpart of the one in which the royal reception had been held, for it was domed too, and of similar proportions; Hornblower remembered the two domes he had seen when his carriage drew up to the palace. It was dotted with chairs and sofas and tables, round one of which a group of dowagers were already playing cards, and an elderly couple were playing backgammon at another. At the far end his eye instantly discerned the Countess, seated on a couch with her train spread beside her and her coffee cup and saucer in her hands, while she chatted with another woman; every line of the Countess’s attitude proclaimed girlish innocence.
From the number of people already assembled it was clear that this was the meeting-place of the whole Court; presumably the hundreds of people who had perforce witnessed the royal reception from the gallery were permitted to descend and mingle with their betters after dining less elaborately. Young Mound was lounging towards him, his lean gangling body looking like an overgrown colt’s.
“We have him in a side room aloft, sir,” he reported. “He fainted with the loss of blood—we had to put a tourniquet on his arm to stop the bleeding. We bandaged him with half of Somers’ shirt, and Somers and Mr. Hurst are keeping guard over him.”
“Does anyone know about it?”
“No, sir. We got him into the room without anyone seeing us. I poured a glass of liquor over his coat and from the stink of him anyone’ll think he’s drunk.”
Mound was obviously a capable man in an emergency, as Hornblower had already suspected.
“Very good.”
“The sooner we get him away the better, sir,” said Mound, with a diffidence to be expected of a junior officer making suggestions to a senior.
“You’re quite right,” said Hornblower, “except that—”
Hornblower was still having to think quickly. It would hardly be possible, in any case, to leave at once, the moment dinner was over. It would not be polite. And there was the Countess over there, presumably watching them. If they were to leave now, immediately after conferring together—and breaking an engagement with her—she would be full of suspicion, as well as of the fury of a woman scorned. They simply could not leave immediately.
“We shall have to stay another hour at least,” he said. “The conventions demand it. Go back and hold the fort for that time.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Mound restrained himself in the nick of time from coming to attention as with the habit of years he had grown accustomed to do when uttering those words—further proof of the clearness of his head. He nodded and wandered off as if they had been merely discussing the weather, and Hornblower allowed his slow legs to carry him over towards the Countess.
She smiled at his approach.
“Princess,” she said, “you have not met Commodore Hornblower? The Princess de Stolp.”
Hornblower bowed; the Princess was an elderly woman with a good deal left of what must have been marvellous beauty.
“The Commodore,” went on the Countess, “has expressed a desire to see the picture gallery. Would you care to come with us, Princess?”
“No, thank you,” said the Princess, “I fear I am too old for picture galleries. But go, my children, without me.”
“I would not like to leave you alone, here,” protested the Countess.
“Even at my age, I can boast that I am still never left long alone, Countess. Leave me, I beg you. Enjoy yourselves, children.”
Hornblower bowed again, and the Countess took his arm, and they walked slowly out. She pressed his arm, while footmen stood aside to allow them passage.
“The Italian pictures of the Cinque Cento are in the far gallery,” said the Countess as they came into the broad corridor. “Would you care to see the more modern ones first?”
“As madame wishes,” said Hornblower.
Once through a door, once out of the ceremonial part of the palace, it was like a rabbit warren, narrow passages, innumerable staircases, an infinity of rooms. The apartment to which she led him was on the first floor; a sleepy maid who was awaiting her coming vanished into the room beyond they came into the luxurious sitting-room. It was into the room beyond that the Countess called him, five minutes later.
Chapter Thirteen
Hornblower turned over in his cot with a groan; the effort of turning brought back the pain into his temples, although he moved very cautiously. He was a fool to have drunk so much—it was the first time he had had this sort of headache for half a dozen years. Yet it had been hard to avoid, just as everything else had been hard to avoid; he did not know what else he could have done, once events had him in their grip. He raised his voice and shouted for Brown—it hurt his head again to shout, and his voice was a hoarse croak. He heard the voice of the sentry at the door passing on the word, and with an infinity of effort he sat up and put his legs out of bed, determined that Brown should not find him prostrate.
“Bring me some coffee,” he said when Brown came in.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower continued to sit on the edge of his cot. Overhead he heard the raucous voice of Hurst blaring
