Vautour called attention to his own star, a more modest affair. Cambronne’s displayed an immense eagle of gold, the badge of the now defunct French Empire.
“I won this on the field of battle,” said Cambronne.
“Don Alphonso de Versage,” said Sharpe. “His Most Catholic Majesty’s Consul-General.”
This was the representative of Spain, then. A word or two with him regarding this pending cession of Florida might be informative, but Hornblower had hardly time to exchange formal courtesies before another presentation was being made. It was some time before Hornblower had a breathing space, and could look round the pretty scene in the candlelight, with the uniforms and the broadcloth coats, the bare arms and shoulders of the women in their bright gowns and flashing jewellery, and the two Sharpes moving unobtrusively through the throng marshalling their guests in order of precedence. The entrance of the Governor and his lady was the signal for the announcement of dinner.
The dining-room was as vast as the drawing-room; the table with covers for thirty-two stood comfortably in it with ample room all round for the numerous footmen. The candlelight was more subdued here, but it glittered impressively on the silver which crowded the long table. Hornblower, seated between the Governor’s lady and Mrs Sharpe, reminded himself that he must be alert and careful regarding his table manners; it was the more necessary to be alert because he had to speak French on one side of him and English on the other. He looked dubiously at the six different wine glasses that stood at each place—the sherry was already being poured into the first of the glasses. He could see Cambronne seated between two pretty girls and obviously making himself pleasant to both of them. He did not look as if he had a care in the world; if he were meditating a filibustering expedition it did not weigh very heavily on his mind.
A steaming plate of turtle soup, thick with gobbets of green fat. This was to be a dinner served in the Continental fashion which had come in after Waterloo, with no hodge-podge of dishes set out on the table for the guests to help themselves. He spooned cautiously at the hot soup, and applied himself to making small talk with his dinner partners. Dish succeeded dish, and soon he had to face in the hot room the delicate question of etiquette as to whether it was more ungentlemanly to mop the sweat from his face or to leave it there, flowing and visible; his discomfort decided him in the end to mop, furtively. Now Sharpe was catching his eye, and he had to rise to his feet, striving to make his stupefied brain work while the buzz of conversation died down. He raised his glass.
“The President of the United States,” he said; he had been about to continue, idiotically, ‘Long may he reign.’ He checked himself with a jerk and went on, “Long may the great nation of which he is President enjoy prosperity and the international amity of which this gathering is symbolic.”
The toast was drunk with acclaim, with nothing said about the fact that over half the continent Spaniards and Spanish-Americans were busy killing each other. He sat down and mopped again. Now Cambronne was on his feet.
“His Britannic Majesty George the Fourth, King of Great Britain and Ireland.”
The toast was drunk and now it was Hornblower’s turn again, as evidenced by Sharpe’s glance. He stood up, glass in hand, and began the long list.
“His Most Christian Majesty. His Most Catholic Majesty. His Most Faithful Majesty.” That disposed of France and Spain and Portugal. “His Majesty the King of the Netherlands.”
For the life of him he could not remember who came next. But Gerard caught his despairing eye and gave a significant jerk of his thumb.
“His Majesty the King of Sweden,” gulped Hornblower. “His Majesty the King of Prussia.”
A reassuring nod from Gerard told him that he had now included all the nations represented, and he plucked the rest of his speech out of the whirlpool of his mind.
“Long may Their Majesties reign, in increasing honour and glory.”
Well, that was over, and he could sit down again. But now the Governor was on his feet, speaking in rhetorical phrases, and it broke in upon Hornblower’s dulled intelligence that his own health was the next to be drunk. He tried to listen. He was aware of keen glances shot at him from around the table when the Governor alluded to the defence of this city of New Orleans from the ‘misguided hordes’ who had assailed it in vain—the allusion was perhaps inevitable even though it was over six years since the battle—and he tried to force a smile. At long last the Governor reached his end.
“His Lordship Admiral Hornblower, and I couple with his name a toast to the British Navy.”
Hornblower climbed back upon his feet as the approving murmur of the company died down.
“Thank you for this unexpected honour,” he said, and gulped as he sought for further words. “And to have my name coupled with that of the great navy in which it has been my privilege to serve so long is an additional honour for which to thank you.”
The ladies were all rising, now that he had sat down, and he stood again while they withdrew. The highly trained footmen swept the table clear of its accessories in a trice, and the men gathered to one end of the table as the decanter was put into circulation. The glasses were filled as Sharpe brought one of the merchants present into the conversation with a question about the cotton crop. It was safe ground from which to make brief and cautious sorties upon the much more debatable ground of world conditions. But only a few minutes later the butler came in and murmured something to Sharpe, who turned to convey the news he brought to the French Consul-General. Vautour rose to his feet with an expression of dismay.
“Perhaps you will accept my excuses, sir,” he said. “I much regret the necessity.”
“No more than I regret it, Baron,” said Sharpe. “I trust it is only a slight indisposition.”
“I trust so,” said Vautour.
“The Baroness finds herself indisposed,” explained Sharpe to the company. “I am sure you gentlemen will all join me in hoping, as I said, that the indisposition is slight, and regretting that it involves the loss to us of the Baron’s charming company.”
There was a sympathetic murmur, and Vautour turned to Cambronne.
“Shall I send back the carriage for you, Count?” he asked.
Cambronne pulled at his cat’s-whisker moustache.
“Perhaps it might be better if I came with you,” he said. “Much as I regret leaving this delightful assembly.”
The two Frenchmen took their leave, after polite farewells.
“It is a great pleasure having made your acquaintance, milord,” said Cambronne, bowing to Hornblower. The stiffness of his bow was mitigated by the twinkle in his eye.
“It has been a profound experience to meet so distinguished a soldier of the late Empire,” replied Hornblower.
The Frenchmen were escorted out of the room by Sharpe, voluble in his regrets.
“Your glasses need refilling, gentlemen,” said Sharpe on his return.
There was nothing Hornblower disliked more than drinking large glasses of port in a hot and humid room, even though he now found himself free to discuss the Florida question with the Spanish Consul-General. He was glad when Sharpe made the move to rejoin the ladies. Somewhere within earshot of the drawing-room a string orchestra was playing, but luckily in a subdued manner, so that Hornblower was spared much of the irritation that he usually suffered when he was compelled to listen to music with his tone-deaf ear. He found himself sitting next to one of the pretty young women beside whom Cambronne had been sitting at dinner. In reply to her questions he was forced to admit that on this, his first day, he had seen almost nothing of the city of New Orleans, but the admission led to a discussion of other places he had visited. Two cups of coffee, poured for him by a footman passing round the drawing-room, cleared his head a little; the young woman was attentive and listened well, and nodded sympathetically when the conversation revealed that Hornblower had left behind, at the call of duty, a wife and a ten-year-old son in England.
Gradually the night wore on, and at last the Governor and his lady rose to their feet and the party was over. There were the last few weary minutes of awkward conversation as the carriages were announced one by one, and then Sharpe returned to the drawing-room after escorting the last of the guests to the door.
“A successful evening, I fancy. I trust Your Lordship agrees with me,” he said, and turned to his wife. “But I must ask you, my dear, to remember to reprimand Grover about the souffle.”
The entry of the butler with another murmured message prevented Mrs Sharpe’s reply.
“Your Lordship’s pardon for a moment,” said Sharpe. He wore an expression of dismay and hastened out of the room, leaving Hornblower and Gerard to begin polite words of thanks to his hostess for his pleasant
