This was love, unalloyed and without reservations. There was an ecstasy in giving, and no amazement in receiving. It had come to him at last, after all these years and tribulations. Cynically it might be thought that it was merely one more example of Hornblower’s yearning for the thing he could not have, but if that was the case Hornblower for once was not conscious of it. There was some line from the prayer-book that ran in Hornblower’s head during those days — ‘Whose service is perfect freedom’. That described his servitude to Marie.
The Loire was still in flood; the cataract where once he had nearly drowned — the cataract which was the cause of his first meeting with Marie — was a rushing slope of green water, foam-bordered. Hornblower could hear the sound of it as he lay in Marie’s arms in her room in the turret; often they walked beside it, and Hornblower could contemplate it without a tremor or a thrill. That was all over. His reason told him that he was the same man as boarded the Castilla, the same man who faced el Supremo’s wrath, the man who fought to the death at Rosas Bay, the man who had walked decks awash with blood, and yet oddly he felt as if those things had happened to someone else. Now he was a man of peace, a man of indolence, and the cataract was not a thing that had nearly killed him.
It seemed perfectly natural when the Count came in with good news.
“The Count d’Artois has defeated Bonaparte in a battle in the south,” he said. “Bonaparte is a fugitive, and will soon be a prisoner. The news is from Paris.”
That was as it should be; the wars were over.
“I think we can light a bonfire tonight,” said the Count, and the bonfire blazed and toasts were drunk to the King.
But it was no later than next morning that Brown, as he put the breakfast tray beside Hornblower’s bed, announced that the Count wished to speak to him as early as convenient, and he had hardly uttered the words when the Count came in, haggard and dishevelled in his dressing-gown.
“Pardon this intrusion,” said the Count — even at that moment he could not forget his good manners — “but I could not wait. There is bad news. The very worst.”
Hornblower could only stare and wait, while the Count gathered his strength to tell his news. It took an effort to say the words.
“Bonaparte is in Paris,” said the Count. “The King has fled and Bonaparte is Emperor again. All France has fallen to him.”
“But the battle he had lost?”
“Rumour — lies — all lies. Bonaparte is Emperor again.”
It took time to understand all that this implied. It meant war again, that was certain. Whatever the other Great Powers might do, England could never tolerate the presence of that treacherous and mighty enemy across the Channel. England and France would be at each other’s throats once more. Twenty-two years ago the wars had started; it seemed likely that it would be another twenty-two years before Bonaparte could be pulled from his throne again. There would be another twenty-two years of misery and slaughter. The prospect was utterly hideous.
“How did it happen?” asked Hornblower, more to gain time than because he wanted to know.
The Count spread his delicate hands in a hopeless gesture.
“Not a shot was fired,” he said. “The army went over to him en masse. Ney, Labédoyère, Soult — they all betrayed the King. In two weeks Bonaparte marched from the Mediterranean to Paris. That would be fast travelling in a coach and six.”
“But the people do not want him,” protested Hornblower. “We all know that.”
“The people’s wishes do not weigh against the army’s,” said the Count. “The news has come with the usurper’s first decrees. The classes of 1815 and 1816 are to be called out. The Household troops are disbanded, the Imperial Guard is to be reconstituted. Bonaparte is ready to fight Europe again.”
Hornblower vaguely saw himself once more on the deck of a ship, weighed down with responsibility, encompassed by danger, isolated and friendless. It was a bleak prospect.