There could be no doubt about Hornblower’s pleasure at seeing him. His face was lit with a smile and he drew Bush into the room while shaking his hand. It was an attic, with a steeply sloping ceiling; it contained a bed and a night table and a single wooden chair, but, as far as Bush’s cursory glance could discover, nothing else at all.
“And how is it with you?” asked Bush, seating himself in the proffered chair, while Hornblower sat on the bed.
“Well enough,” replied Hornblower — but was there, or was there not, a guilty pause before that answer? In any case the pause was covered up by the quick counter‑question. ‘ And with you?”
“So‑so,” said Bush.
They talked indifferently for a space, with Hornblower asking questions about the Chichester cottage that Bush lived in with his sisters.
“We must see about your bed for tonight,” said Hornblower at the first pause. “I’ll go down and give Mrs Mason a hail.”
“I’d better come too,” said Bush.
Mrs Mason lived in a hard world, quite obviously; she turned the proposition over in her mind for several seconds before she agreed to it.
“A shilling for the bed,” she said. “Can’t wash the sheets for less than that with soap as it is.”
“Very good,” said Bush.
He saw Mrs Mason’s hand held out, and he put the shilling into it; no one could be in any doubt about Mrs Mason’s determination to be paid in advance by any friend of Hornblower’s. Hornblower had dived for his pocket when he caught sight of the gesture, but Bush was too quick for him.
“And you’ll be talking till all hours,” said Mrs Mason. “Mind you don’t disturb my other gentlemen. And douse the light while you talk, too, or you’ll be burning a shilling’s worth of tallow.”
“Of course,” said Hornblower.
“Maria! Maria!” called Mrs Mason.
A young woman — no, a woman not quite young — came up the stairs from the depths of the house at the call.
“Yes, Mother?”
Maria listened to Mrs Mason’s instructions for making up a truckle bed in Mr Hornblower’s room.
“Yes, Mother,” she aid.
“Not teaching today, Maria?” asked Hornblower pleasantly.
“No, sir.” The smile that lit her plain face showed her keen pleasure at being addressed.
“Oak‑Apple Day? No, not yet. It’s not the King’s Birthday. Then why this holiday?”
“Mumps, sir,” said Maria. “They all have mumps, except Johnnie Bristow.”
“That agrees with everything I’ve heard about Johnnie Bristow,” said Hornblower.
“Yes, sir,” said Maria. She smiled again, clearly pleased not only that Hornblower should jest with her but also because he remembered what she had told him about the school.
Back in the attic again Hornblower and Bush resumed their conversation, this time on a more serious plane. The state of Europe occupied their attention.
“This man Bonaparte,” said Bush. “He’s a restless cove.”
“That’s the right word for him,” agreed Hornblower.
“Isn’t he satisfied? Back in ’96 when I was in the old Superb in the Mediterranean — that was when I was commissioned lieutenant — he was just a general. I can remember hearing his name for the first time, when we were blockading Toulon. Then he went to Egypt. Now he’s First Consul — isn’t that what he calls himself?”
“Yes. But he’s Napoleon now, not Bonaparte any more. First Consul for life.”
“Funny sort of name. Not what I’d choose for myself.”
“Lieutenant Napoleon Bush,” said Hornblower. “It wouldn’t sound well.”
They laughed together at the ridiculous combination.
“The Morning Chronicle says he’s going a step farther,” went on Hornblower. “There’s talk that he’s going to call himself Emperor.”
“Emperor!”
Even Bush could catch the connotations of that title, with its claims to universal pre‑eminence.
“I suppose he’s mad?” asked Bush.
“If he is, he’s the most dangerous madman in Europe.”
“I don’t trust him over this Malta business. I don’t trust him an inch,” said Bush, emphatically. “You mark my words we’ll have to fight him again in the end. Teach him a lesson he won’t forget. It’ll come sooner or later — we can’t go on like this.”
“I think you’re quite right,” said Hornblower. “And sooner rather than later.”