Anxious debate between him and the Count had ended in his deciding against running the risk of buying food while on their way unless compelled; the fifty pounds of biscuit which Jeanne baked for them (there was a locker in the boat in which to store it) would provide the three of them with a pound of bread each day for seventeen days, and there was a sack of potatoes waiting for them, and another of dried peas; and there were long thin Arles sausages — as dry as sticks, and, to Hornblower’s mind, not much more digestible, but with the merit of staying eatable for long periods — and some of the dry cod which Hornblower had come to know during his captivity at Ferrol, and a corner of bacon; taken all in all — as Hornblower pointed out to the Count who was inclined to demur — they were going to fare better on their voyage down the Loire than they had often fared in the ships of His Majesty King George. Hornblower, accustomed for so long to sea voyages, never ceased to marvel at the simplicity of planning a river trip thanks to the easy solution of the problem of water supply; overside they would have unlimited fresh water for drinking and washing and bathing — much better water, too, as he told the Count again, than the stinking green stuff, alive with animalculae, doled out at the rate of four pints a head a day, with which people in ships had to be content.
He could anticipate no trouble until they neared the sea; it was only with their entry into tidal waters that they would be in any danger. He knew how the French coast swarmed with garrisons and customs officers — as a lieutenant under Pellew he had once landed a spy in the salt marshes of Bourgneuf — and it would be under their noses that they would have to steal a fishing boat and make their way to sea. Thanks to the Continental system, and the fear of English descents, and precautions against espionage, tidal waters would be watched closely indeed. But he felt he could only trust to fortune — it was hard to make plans against contingencies which might take any shape whatever, and besides, those dangers were weeks away, and Hornblower’s newly contented mind was actually too lazy to devote much thought to them. And as he grew fonder of Marie, too, it grew harder to make plans which would take him away from her. His attachment for her was growing even as strong as that.
It was left to the Count to make the most helpful suggestion of all.
“If you would permit me,” he said, one evening, “I would like to tell you of an idea I have for simplifying your passage through Nantes.”
“It would give me pleasure to hear it, sir,” said Hornblower — the Count’s long-winded politeness was infectious.
“Please do not think,” said the Count, “that I wish to interfere in any way in the plans you are making, but it occurred to me that your stay on the coast might be made safer if you assumed the role of a high official of the customs service.”
“I think it would, sir,” said Hornblower, patiently, “but I do not understand how I could do it.”
“You would have to announce yourself, if necessary, as a Dutchman,” said the Count. “Now that Holland is annexed to France and King Louis Bonaparte has fled, it is to be presumed that his employes will join the Imperial service. I think it is extremely likely that, say, a colonel of Dutch douaniers should visit Nantes to learn how to perform his duties — especially as it was over the enforcement of customs regulations that Bonaparte and his brother fell out. Your very excellent French would be just what might be expected of a Dutch customs officer, even though — please pardon my frankness — you do not speak quite like a native Frenchman.”
“But — but —” stammered Hornblower; it really seemed to him that the Count’s customary good sense had deserted him “— it would be difficult, sir —”
“Difficult?” smiled the Count. “It might be dangerous, but, if you will forgive my contradicting you so directly, it would hardly be difficult. In your English democracy you perhaps have had no opportunity of seeing how much weight an assured manner and a uniform carry with them in a country like this, which has already made the easy descent from an autocracy to a bureaucracy. A colonel of douaniers on the coast can go anywhere, command anything. He never has to account for himself — his uniform does that for him.”
“But I have no uniform, sir,” said Hornblower, and before the words were out of his mouth he guessed what the Count was going to say.
“We have half a dozen needlewomen in the house,” smiled the Count, “from Marie here to little Christine the cook’s daughter. It would be odd if between them they could not make uniforms for you and your assistants. I might add that Mr Bush’s wound, which we all so much deplore, will be an actual advantage if you adopt the scheme. It is exactly consonant with Bonaparte’s methods to provide for an officer wounded in his service by giving him a position in the customs. Mr Bush’s presence with you would add a touch of — shall we say realism? — to the effect produced by your appearance.”
The Count gave a little bow to Bush, in apology for thus alluding to Bush’s crippled condition, and Bush returned it awkwardly from his chair in bland ignorance of at least two thirds of what had been said.
The value of the suggestion was obvious to Hornblower at once, and for days afterwards the women in the house were at work cutting and stitching and fitting, until the evening came when the three of them paraded before the Count in their neat coats of blue piped with white and red, and their rakish képis - it was the making of these which had taxed Marie’s ingenuity most, for the képi was still at that time an unusual headdress in the French government services. On Hornblower’s collar glittered the eight-pointed stars of colonel’s rank, and the top of his képi bore the gold-lace rosette; as the three of them rotated solemnly before the Count the latter nodded approvingly.
“Excellent,” he said, and then hesitated. “There is only one addition which I can think of to add realism. Excuse me a moment.”
He went off to his study leaving the others looking at each other, but he was back directly with a little leather case in his hand which he proceeded to open. Resting on the silk was a glittering cross of white enamel, surmounted by a golden crown and with a gold medallion in the centre.
“We must pin this on you,” he said. “No one reaches colonel’s rank without the Legion of Honour.”
“Father!” said Marie — it was rare that she used the familiar mode of address with him — “that was Louis-Marie’s.”
“I know, my dear, I know. But it may make the difference between Captain Hornblower’s success or — or failure.”
His hands trembled a little, nevertheless, as he pinned the scarlet ribbon to Hornblower’s coat.
“Sir — sir, it is too good of you,” protested Hornblower.
The Count’s long, mobile face, as he stood up, was sad, but in a moment he had twisted it into his usual wry smile.
“Bonaparte sent it to me,” he said, “after — after my son’s death in Spain. It was a posthumous award. To me of course it is nothing — the trinkets of the tyrant can never mean anything to a Knight of the Holy Ghost. But because of its sentimental value I should be grateful if you would endeavour to preserve it unharmed and return it to me when the war is over.”
“I cannot accept it, sir,” said Hornblower, bending to unpin it again, but the Count checked him.
“Please, Captain,” he said, “wear it, as a favour to me. It would please me if you would.”
More than ever after his reluctant acceptance did Hornblower’s conscience prick him at the thought that he had seduced this man’s daughter-in-law while enjoying his hospitality, and later in the evening when he found himself alone with the Count in the drawing room the conversation deepened his sense of guilt.
“Now that your stay is drawing to an end, Captain,” said the Count, “I know how much I shall miss your presence after you have gone. Your company has given me the very greatest pleasure.”