“My darling! My love!” whispered Hornblower, driven almost beyond his self-control.
The hand on his arm fluttered, but Marie continued un-faltering to walk on down the stair.
Dinner was a cheerful function, for fat Jeanne the cook had surpassed herself, and the Count was in his best form, droll and serious in turns, witty and well-informed. They discussed the policy of the Bourbon Government, wondered about the decisions being reached at the Congress of Vienna, and spared a few passing thoughts for Bonaparte in Elba.
“Before we left Paris,” remarked the Count, “there was talk that he was too dangerous a neighbour there. It was being suggested that he should be transferred to a safer place — your island of St. Helena in the South Atlantic was named in that connection.”
“Perhaps that would be better,” agreed Hornblower.
“Europe will be in a ferment as long as that man can be the centre of intrigues,” said Marie. “Why should he be allowed to unsettle us all?”
“The Tsar is sentimental, and was his friend,” explained the Count with a shrug. “The Emperor of Austria is, after all, his father-in-law.”
“Should they indulge their preferences at the expense of France — of civilisation?” asked Marie, bitterly.
Women always seemed to be more hotly partisan than men.
“I don’t think Bonaparte constitutes a very active danger,” said Hornblower, complacently.
As the Count sipped his coffee after dinner his eyes wandered longingly towards the card-table.
“Have you lost your old skill at whist, ‘Oratio?” he asked. “There are only the three of us, but I thought we might make use of a dummy. In some ways — heretical though the opinion may appear — I feel that the game with a dummy is the more scientific.”
Nobody mentioned how Bush used to play with them, but they all thought of him. They cut and shuffled and dealt, cut and shuffled and dealt. There was some truth in what the Count said about whist with a dummy being more scientific; certainly it allowed for a closer calculation of chances. The Count played with all his old verve, Marie seemingly with all her old solid skill, and Hornblower sought to display his usual scientific precision. Yet something was not quite right. Dummy whist was somehow unsettling — perhaps it was because the need for changing seats as the deal passed broke the continuity of the play. There was no question of simply losing oneself in the game, as Hornblower usually could do. He was vastly conscious of Marie, now beside him, now opposite him, and twice he made minor slips in play. At the end of the second rubber Marie folded her hands on her lap.
“I think I have played all I can this evening,” she said. “I am sure ‘Oratio is as much a master of piquet as he is of whist. Perhaps you can entertain each other with that while I go to bed.”
The Count was on his feet with his usual deferential politeness, asking if she felt quite well, and, when she assured him that she was merely tired, escorting her to the door exactly as he would have escorted a queen.
“Good night, ‘Oratio,” said Marie.
“Good night, madame,” said Horatio, standing by the card-table.
One glance passed between them — one glance, enduring less than one-tenth of a second, but long enough for each to tell the other all.
“I trust Marie was correct in her assumption that you are a master of piquet, ‘Oratio,” said the Count, returning from the door. “She and I have played much together in default of whist. But I am taking it for granted that you wish to play? How inconsiderate of me! Please —”
Hornblower hastened to assure the Count that he would like nothing better.
“That is delightful,” said the Count, shuffling the cards with his slender white fingers. “I am a fortunate man.”
He was fortunate at least in his play that night, taking his usual bold risks and being rewarded by unpredictable good luck in his discards. His minor seizièmes outranked Hornblower’s major quints, a quatorze of knaves saved him when Hornblower had three aces, three kings and three queens, and twice carte blanche rescued him from disaster in face of Hornblower’s overwhelming hands. When Hornblower was strong, the Count was lucky; and when Hornblower was weak the Count was overpoweringly strong. At the conclusion of the third partie Hornblower gazed helplessly across at him.