“That is what I expected,” answered Marie. She was a fine woman in a crisis.
“We can cross the bridge at Nevers, and head for Bourges and La Rochelle. In the Vendée we shall have our best chance.”
“It might be better to make for a little fishing village rather than a great port,” commented Marie.
“That’s very likely true. We can make up our minds about it, though, when we are near the coast.”
“Very well.”
She appreciated the importance of unity of command even though she was ready with advice.
“What about your valuables?” asked Hornblower.
“I have my diamonds in my saddle-bag here.”
As she spoke the Count came in, booted and spurred. He carried a small leather sack which clinked as he put it down.
“Two hundred napoleons,” he said.
“The same as I have. It will be ample.”
“It would be better if it did not clink, though,” said Marie. “I’ll pack it with a cloth.”
Felix entered with the Count’s saddle-bags and the announcement that the horses were ready — Brown and Annette awaited them in the courtyard.
“Let us go,” said Hornblower.
It was a sorry business saying goodbye. There were tears from the women — Annette’s pretty face was all beslobbered with grief — even though the men, trained in the stoical school of gentlemen’s service, kept silence.
“Goodbye, my friend,” said the Count, holding out his hand to Felix. They were both old men, and the chances were that they would never meet again.
They rode out of the courtyard, and down to the road along the river; it was ironical that it should be a lovely spring day, with the fruit blossom raining down on them and the Loire sparkling joyously. At the first turn in the road the spires and towers of Nevers came into sight; at the next they could clearly see the ornate Gonzaga palace. Hornblower spared it a casual glance, blinked, and looked again. Marie was beside him and the Count beyond her, and he glanced at them for confirmation.
“That is a white flag,” said Marie.
“I thought so too,” wondered Hornblower.
“My eyes are such that I can see no flag at all,” said the Count ruefully.
Hornblower turned in his saddle to Brown, riding along encouraging Annette.
“That’s a white flag over the palace, my lord.”
“It hardly seems possible,” said the Count. “My news this morning came from Nevers. Beauregard, the Prefect there, had declared at once for Bonaparte.”
It was certainly odd — even if the white flag had been hoisted inadvertently it was odd.
“We shall know soon enough,” said Hornblower, restraining his natural instinct to push his horse from a trot into a canter.
The white flag still flew as they approached. At the octroi gate stood half a dozen soldiers in smart grey uniforms, their grey horses tethered behind them.
“Those are Grey Musketeers of the Household,” said Marie. Hornblower recognised the uniforms. He had seen those troops in attendance on the King both at the Tuileries and at Versailles.
“Grey Musketeers cannot hurt us,” said the Count.
The sergeant of the picket looked at them keenly as they approached, and stepped into the road to ask them their names.
“Louis-Antoine-Hector-Savinien de Ladon, Comte de Graçay, and his suite,” said the Count.
“You may pass, M. le Comte,” said the sergeant. “Her Royal Highness is at the Prefecture.”
“Which Royal Highness?” marvelled the Count.
In the Grand Square a score of troopers of the Grey Musketeers sat their horses. A few white banners flew here and there, and as they entered the square a man emerged from the Prefecture and began to stick up a printed poster. They rode up to look at it — the first word was easily read — ‘Frenchmen!’ it said.
“Her Royal Highness is the Duchess of Angoulême,” said the Count.
The proclamation called on all Frenchmen to fight against the usurping tyrant, to be loyal to the ancient House of Bourbon. According to the poster, the King was still in arms around Lille, the south had risen under the Duke d’Angoulême, and all Europe was marching armies to enchain the man-eating ogre and restore the Father of his People to the throne of his ancestors.