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.”
“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.
In the Prefecture the Duchess received them eagerly. Her beautiful face was drawn with fatigue, and she still wore a mud-splashed riding habit — she had ridden through the night with her squadron of musketeers, entering Nevers by another road on the heels of Bonaparte’s proclamation.
“They changed sides quickly enough again,” said the Duchess.
Nevers was not a garrison town and contained no troops; her hundred disciplined musketeers made her mistress of the little place without a blow struck.
“I was about to send for you, M. le Comte,” went on the Duchess. “I was not aware of our extraordinary good fortune in Lord ‘Ornblower’s being present here, I want to appoint you Lieutenant-General of the King in the Niveroais.”
“You think a rising can succeed, Your Royal Highness?” asked Hornblower.
“A rising?” said the Duchess, with the faintest of interrogative inflections.
To Hornblower that was the note of doom. The Duchess was the most intelligent and spirited of all the Bourbons, but not even she could think of the movement she was trying to head as a ‘rising’. Bonaparte was the rebel; she was engaged in suppressing rebellion, even if Bonaparte reigned in the Tuileries and the army obeyed him. But this was war; this was life or death, and he was in no mood to quibble with amateurs.
“Let us not waste time over definitions, madame,” he said.
“Do you think there is in France strength enough to drive out Bonaparte?”
“He is the most hated man in this country.”
“But that does not answer the question,” persisted Hornblower.
“The Vendée will fight,” said the Duchess. “Laroche-Jacquelin is there, and they will follow him. My husband is raising the Midi. The King and the Household are holding out in Lille. Gascony will resist the usurper — remember how Bordeaux cast off allegiance to him last year.”