“Enchanted to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Hornblower in his best French.
“No more enchanted than I am to make yours, milord,” replied Cambronne. He had a cold, greeny-grey eye with a twinkle in it; a grey cat’s-whisker moustache adorned his upper lip.
“The Baroness de Vautour,” said Sharpe. “The Baron de Vautour, His Most Christian Majesty’s Consul-General.”
Hornblower bowed and said again that he was enchanted. His Most Christian Majesty was Louis XVIII of France, using the Papal title conferred on his house centuries earlier.
“The Count is being mischievous,” said Vautour. He indicated Cambronne’s star. “He is wearing the Grand Eagle, given him during the last régime. Officially the Grand Cordon has been substituted, as our host very properly said.”
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.