Lord Hornblower. C. S. Forester

A tap on the door heralded Marie’s entrance, in her dressing-gown, with her magnificent hair over her shoulders.

“You have heard the news, my dear?” asked the Count. He made no comment either on her presence or on her appearance.

“Yes,” said Marie. “We are in danger.”

“We are indeed,” said the Count. “All of us.”

So appalling had been the news that Hornblower had not yet had leisure to contemplate its immediate personal implications. As an officer of the British Navy, he would be seized and imprisoned immediately. Not only that, but Bonaparte had intended years ago to try him and shoot him on charges of piracy. He would carry that intention into effect — tyrants have long memories. And the Count, and Marie?

“Bonaparte knows now that you helped me escape,” said Hornblower. “He will never forgive that.”

“He will shoot me if he can catch me,” said the Count; he made no reference to Marie, but he glanced towards her. Bonaparte would shoot her too.

“We must get away,” said Hornblower. “The country cannot be settled under Bonaparte yet. With fast horses we can reach the coast —”

He took his bedclothes in his hand to cast them off, restraining himself in the nick of time out of deference to Marie’s presence.

“I shall be dressed in ten minutes,” said Marie.

As the door closed behind her and the Count, Hornblower hurled himself out of bed shouting for Brown. The transition from the sybarite to the man of action took a few moments, but only a few. As he tore off his nightshirt he conjured up before his mind’s eye the map of France, visualising the roads and ports. They could reach La Rochelle over the mountains in two days of hard riding. He hauled up his trousers. The Count had a great name — no one would venture to arrest him or his party without direct orders from Paris; with bluff and self-confidence they could get through. There were two hundred golden napoleons in the secret compartment of his portmanteau — maybe the Count had more. It was enough for bribery. They could bribe a fisherman to take them out to sea — they could steal a boat, for that matter.

It was humiliating thus to run like rabbits at Bonaparte’s first reappearance; it was hardly consonant with the dignity of a peer and a commodore, but his first duty was to preserve his life and his usefulness. A dull rage against Bonaparte, the wrecker of the peace, was growing within him, but was still far from mastering him as yet. It was resentment as yet, rather than rage; and his sullen resignation regarding the change in conditions was slowly giving way to tentative wonderings regarding whether he could not play a more active part in the opening of the struggle than merely running away to fight another day. Here he was in France, in the heart of his enemy’s country. Surely he could strike a blow here that could be felt. As he hauled on his riding-boots he spoke to Brown.

“What about your wife?” he asked.

“I hoped she could come with us, my lord,” said Brown, soberly.

If he left her behind he would not see her again until the end of the war twenty years off; if he stayed with her he would be cast into prison.

“Can she ride?”

“She will, my lord.”

“Go and see that she gets ready. We can carry nothing more than saddle-bags. She can attend Mme la Vicomtesse.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Two hundred gold napoleons made a heavy mass to carry, but it was essential to have them with him. Hornblower thumped down the stairs in his riding-boots; Marie was already in the main hall wearing a black habit and a saucy tricorne hat with a feather. He ran his eyes keenly over her; there was nothing about her appearance to excite attention — she was merely a lady of fashion soberly dressed.

“Shall we take any of the men with us?” she asked.

“They are all old. It would be better not to. The Count, you, myself, Brown and Annette. We shall need five horses.”

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