The Commodore. C. S. Forester

The little room must be very warm; Hornblower found himself sweating in his heavy uniform.

“And here in the Baltic?”

“Here England has penetrated too. Not one of Bonaparte’s ships will move from to-day without my permission. England is ready with her support. She is ready to pour in money and arms to help any power that will withstand the tyrant. Bonaparte is ringed in from the South and the West and the North. There is only the East left to him. That is where he will strike and that is where he must be opposed.”

It was the handsome, pale young man in the dark corner of the room to whom these remarks were really addressed. The Minister of Marine had a far smaller stake on the board of international politics than did his master. Other kings in war risked a province or two, risked their dignity or their fame, but the Tsar of Russia, the most powerful and autocratic of them all, risked his life, and there was no gainsaying that. A word from the Tsar might send a nobleman to Siberia; another word might set half a million men on the move to war; but if either move were a false one the Tsar would pay for it with his life. A military defeat, a momentary loss of control over his courtiers or his guards, and the Tsar was doomed, first to dethronement and then to inevitable murder. That had been the fate of his father, and of his grandfather. If he fought and was unsuccessful; if he did not fight and lost his prestige there would be a silken scarf round his throat or a dozen swords between his ribs.

An ormulu clock on a bracket on the wall struck in silvery tones.

“The hour strikes, you see, Your Excellency,” said Hornblower. He was shaking with the excitement that boiled within him. He felt weak and empty.

“The hour strikes indeed,” answered the Minister. He was clearly struggling desperately not to glance back at the Tsar. “As regards the clock, I regret it deeply, as it reminds me that if I detain you longer you will be late for the Imperial reception.”

“I must certainly not be late for that,” said Hornblower.

“I must thank you for the clear way in which you have stated your views, Captain. I shall have the pleasure of meeting you at the reception. His Excellency the Grand Marshal will show you the way to the Tauride Hall.”

Hornblower bowed, still keeping his eyes from wavering towards the Tsar, but he contrived to back from the room without either turning his back on the Tsar or making his precaution too obvious. They squeezed past the Cossacks on the stairs down to the ground floor again.

“This way, if you please, sir.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Footmen opened two more huge doors, and they entered a vast room, the lofty ceiling soaring into a dome far above their heads. The walls were a mass of marble and gold, and grouped in the hall was a crowd of people, the men in uniforms of all the colours of the rainbow, the women in Court dresses with plumes and trains. Orders and jewels reflected the light of innumerable candles.

A group of men and women, laughing and joking in French, opened their ranks to admit Hornblower and the Grand Marshal.

“I have the honour to present -” began the latter. It was a prolonged introduction; the Countess of This, and the Baroness of That, and the Duchess of the Other, beautiful women, some of them bold-eyed and some of them languid. Hornblower bowed and bowed again, the Star of the Bath thumping his chest each time he straightened up.

“You will partner the Countess Canerine at dinner, Captain,” said the Grand Marshal, and Hornblower bowed again.

“Delighted,” he said.

The Countess was the boldest-eyed and most beautiful of them all; under the arches of her brows her eyes were dark and liquid and yet with a consuming fire within them. Her face was a perfect oval, her complexion like rose petals, her magnificent bosom white as snow above the low décolleté of her Court dress.

“As a distinguished stranger,” went on the Grand Marshal, “you will take precedence immediately after the Ambassadors and Ministers. Preceding you will be the Persian Ambassador, His Excellency Gorza Khan.”

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