“Monsieur —”
“Note will be taken of who is present. And of who is absent,” said Hornblower. “The church bells can begin to ring immediately.”
The Mayor tried to meet Hornblower’s eyes. He was still in fear of Bonaparte, still terrified in case some reversal of fortune should leave him at Bonaparte’s mercy, called to account for his actions in receiving the Bourbon. And, on the other hand, Hornblower knew well enough that if he could persuade the city to offer an open welcome, Rouen would think twice about changing sides again. He was determined upon winning allies for his cause.
“Two hours,” said Hornblower, “will be ample for all preparations to be made, for the deputation to assemble, for the streets to be decorated, for quarters to be prepared for His Royal Highness and his suite.”
“Monsieur, you do not understand all that this implies,” protested the Mayor. “It means —”
“It means that you are having to decide whether to enjoy the King’s favour or not,” said Hornblower. “That is the choice before you.”
Hornblower ignored the point that the Mayor was also having to decide whether or not to risk the guillotine at Bonaparte’s hands.
“A wise man,” said Hornblower, meaningfully, “will not hesitate a moment.”
So hesitant was the Mayor that Hornblower began to fear that he would have to use threats. He could threaten dire vengeance tomorrow or the next day when the advancing army should arrive; more effectively, he could threaten to knock the town to pieces immediately with his ships’ guns, but that was not a threat he wanted to put into execution at all; it would be far from establishing the impression he wished to convey of a people receiving its rulers with acclamation after years of suffering under a tyrant.
“Time presses,” said Hornblower, looking at his watch.
“Very well,” said the Mayor, taking the decision which might mean life or death to him. “I’ll do it. What does Your Excellency suggest?”
It took only a matter of minutes to settle the details; Hornblower had learned from Hau much about arranging the public appearances of royalty. Then he took his leave, and drove back again to the quay through the silent crowds, to where the boat lay with Brown growing anxious about him. They had hardly pushed off into the stream when Brown cocked his ear. A church carillon had begun its chimes, and within a minute another had joined in. On the deck of the Porta Coeli the Duke listened to what Hornblower had to tell him. The city was making ready to welcome him.
And when they landed on the quay there was the assembly of notables, as promised; there were the carriages and the horses; there were the white banners in the streets. And there were the apathetic crowds, numbed with disaster. But it meant that Rouen was quiet during their stay there, the reception could at least have an appearance of gaiety, so that Barbara and Hornblower went to bed each night worn out.
Hornblower turned his head on the pillow as the thumping on the door penetrated at last into his consciousness.
“Come in!” he roared; Barbara beside him moved fretfully as he reached out, still half asleep, and pulled open the curtains.
It was Dobbs, slippered and in his shirtsleeves, his braces hanging by his thighs, his hair in a mop. He held a candle in one hand and a despatch in the other.
“It’s over!” he said. “Boney’s abdicated! Blücher’s in Paris!”
So there it was. Victory; the end of twenty years of war. Hornblower sat up and blinked at the candle.
“The Duke must be told,” he said. He was gathering his thoughts. “Is the King still in England? What docs that despatch say?”
He got himself out of bed in his nightshirt, while Barbara sat up with her hair in disorder.
“All right, Dobbs,” said Hornblower. “I’ll be with you in five minutes. Send to wake the Duke and warn him that I am about to come to him.”
He reached for his trousers as Dobbs left him, and, balancing on one leg, he met Barbara’s sleepy gaze.
“It’s peace,” he said. “No more war.”