“Much good will our answers do him,” said Bush, grimly. “Perhaps we’ll drink a dish of tea in the Tuileries with Maria Louisa.”
“Maybe,” answered Hornblower. “And maybe he wants lessons in navigation from you. I’ve heard he’s weak at mathematics.”
That brought a smile. Bush notoriously was no good with figures and suffered agonies when confronted with a simple problem in spherical trigonometry. Hornblower’s acute ears heard Brown’s chair scrape a little; presumably his meal had progressed satisfactorily.
“Help yourself to the wine, Brown,” he said, without turning round.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Brown cheerfully.
There was a whole bottle of wine left as well as some in the other. This would be a good moment for ascertaining if Brown could be trusted with liquor. Hornblower kept his back turned to him and struggled on with his conversation with Bush. Five minutes later Brown’s chair scraped again more definitely, and Hornblower looked round.
“Had enough, Brown?”
“Aye aye, sir. A right good supper.”
The soup tureen and the dish of stew were both empty; the bread had disappeared all save the heel of the loaf; there was only a morsel of cheese left. But one bottle of wine was still two-thirds full — Brown had contented himself with a half bottle at most, and the fact that he had drunk that much and no more was the dearest proof that he was safe as regards alcohol.
“Pull the bellrope, then.”
The distant jangling brought in time the rattling of keys to the door, and in came the sergeant and the two maids; the latter set about clearing the tables under the former’s eye.
“I must get something for you to sleep on, Brown,” said Hornblower.
“I can sleep on the floor, sir.”
“No, you can’t.”
Hornblower had decided opinions about that; there had been occasions as a young officer when he had slept on the bare planks of a ship’s deck, and he knew their unbending discomfort.
“I want a bed for my servant,” he said to the sergeant.
“He can sleep on the floor.”
“I will not allow anything of the kind. You must find a mattress for him.”
Hornblower was surprised to find how quickly he was acquiring the ability to talk French; the quickness of his mind enabled him to make the best use of his limited vocabulary and his retentive memory had stored up all sorts of words, once heard, and was ready to produce them from the subconscious part of his mind as soon as the stimulus of necessity was applied.
The sergeant had shrugged his shoulders and rudely turned his back.
“I shall report your insolence to Colonel Caillard to-morrow morning,” said Hornblower hotly. “Find a mattress immediately.”
It was not so much the threat that carried the day as long-ingrained habits of discipline. Even a sergeant of French gendarmerie was accustomed to yielding deference to gold lace and epaulettes and an authoritative manner. Possibly the obvious indignation of the maids at the suggestion that so fine a man should be left to sleep on the floor may have weighed with him too. He called to the sentry at the door and told him to bring a mattress from the stables where the escort were billeted. It was only a palliasse of straw when it came, but it was something infinitely more comfortable than bare and draughty boards, all the same. Brown looked his gratitude to Hornblower as the mattress was spread out in the corner of the room.
“Time to turn in,” said Hornblower, ignoring it, as the door was locked behind the sergeant. “Let’s make you comfortable, first, Bush.”
It was some obscure self-conscious motive which made Hornblower select from his valise the embroidered nightshirt over which Maria’s busy fingers had laboured lovingly — the nightshirt which he had brought with him from England for use should it happen that he should dine and sleep at a Governor’s or on board the flagship. All the years he had been a captain he had never shared a room with anyone save Maria, and it was a novel experience for him to prepare for bed in sight of Bush and Brown, and he was ridiculously self-conscious about it, regardless of the fact that Bush, white and exhausted, was already lying back on his pillow with drooping eyelids, while Brown modestly stripped off his trousers with downcast eyes, wrapped himself in the cloak which Hornblower insisted on his using, and curled himself up on his palliasse without a glance at his superior.