“Where is the reception for His Royal Highness?” demanded Hornblower. “Why have no salutes been fired? Why are the church bells not ringing?”
“Monsieur—Your Excellency—” The Mayor knew not quite what Hornblower’s uniform and ribbon implied and wanted to be on the safe side. “We did not know—we were not certain—”
“You saw the royal standard,” said Hornblower. “You knew that His Royal Highness was on his way here from Le Havre.”
“There had been rumours, yes,” said the Mayor reluctantly. “But—”
What the Mayor wanted to say was that he hoped the Duke would arrive not only with overpowering force but also would make an unassuming entrance so that nobody would have to commit themselves too definitely on the Bourbon side according him a welcome. And that was exactly what Hornblower had come to force him to do.
“His Royal Highness,” said Hornblower, “is seriously annoyed. If you wish to regain his favour, and that of His Majesty the King who will follow him, you will make all the amends in your power. A deputation—you, all your councillors, all the notables, the Prefect and the Sub-prefect if they are still here, every person of position, in fact, must be on hand two hours from now to welcome Monseigneur when he lands.”
“Monsieur—”
“Note will be taken of who is present. And of who is absent,” said Hornblower. “The church bells can begin to ring immediately.”
The Mayor tried to meet Hornblower’s eyes. He was still in fear of Bonaparte, still terrified in case some reversal of fortune should leave him at Bonaparte’s mercy, called to account for his actions in receiving the Bourbon. And, on the other hand, Hornblower knew well enough that if he could persuade the city to offer an open welcome, Rouen would think twice about changing sides again. He was determined upon winning allies for his cause.
“Two hours,” said Hornblower, “will be ample for all preparations to be made, for the deputation to assemble, for the streets to be decorated, for quarters to be prepared for His Royal Highness and his suite.”
“Monsieur, you do not understand all that this implies,” protested the Mayor. “It means—”
“It means that you are having to decide whether to enjoy the King’s favour or not,” said Hornblower. “That is the choice before you.”
Hornblower ignored the point that the Mayor was also having to decide whether or not to risk the guillotine at Bonaparte’s hands.
“A wise man,” said Hornblower, meaningfully, “will not hesitate a moment.”
So hesitant was the Mayor that Hornblower began to fear that he would have to use threats. He could threaten dire vengeance tomorrow or the next day when the advancing army should arrive; more effectively, he could threaten to knock the town to pieces immediately with his ships’ guns, but that was not a threat he wanted to put into execution at all; it would be far from establishing the impression he wished to convey of a people receiving its rulers with acclamation after years of suffering under a tyrant.
“Time presses,” said Hornblower, looking at his watch.
“Very well,” said the Mayor, taking the decision which might mean life or death to him. “I’ll do it. What does Your Excellency suggest?”
It took only a matter of minutes to settle the details; Hornblower had learned from Hau much about arranging the public appearances of royalty. Then he took his leave, and drove back again to the quay through the silent crowds, to where the boat lay with Brown growing anxious about him. They had hardly pushed off into the stream when Brown cocked his ear. A church carillon had begun its chimes, and within a minute another had joined in. On the deck of the Porta Coeli the Duke listened to what Hornblower had to tell him. The city was making ready to welcome him.
And when they landed on the quay there was the assembly of notables, as promised; there were the carriages and the horses; there were the white banners in the streets. And there were the apathetic crowds, numbed with disaster. But it meant that Rouen was quiet during their stay there, the reception could at least have an appearance of gaiety, so that Barbara and Hornblower went to bed each night worn out.
Hornblower turned his head on the pillow as the thumping on the door penetrated at last into his consciousness.
“Come in!” he roared; Barbara beside him moved fretfully as he reached out, still half asleep, and pulled open the curtains.
It was Dobbs, slippered and in his shirtsleeves, his braces hanging by his thighs, his hair in a mop. He held a candle in one hand and a despatch in the other.
“It’s over!” he said. “Boney’s abdicated! Blücher’s in Paris!”
So there it was. Victory; the end of twenty years of war. Hornblower sat up and blinked at the candle.
“The Duke must be told,” he said. He was gathering his thoughts. “Is the King still in England? What docs that despatch say?”
He got himself out of bed in his nightshirt, while Barbara sat up with her hair in disorder.
“All right, Dobbs,” said Hornblower. “I’ll be with you in five minutes. Send to wake the Duke and warn him that I am about to come to him.”
He reached for his trousers as Dobbs left him, and, balancing on one leg, he met Barbara’s sleepy gaze.
“It’s peace,” he said. “No more war.”
Even when roused out in this fashion Hornblower dressed, as he did all that came his way, extraordinarily quickly. He was tucking his nightshirt into his trousers—the long skirts of the warm and bulky garment packed the latter uncomfortably full—before Barbara replied.
“We knew it would come,” she said, a little fretfully. During recent events Barbara had had small time to sleep.
“The Duke must be told immediately, all the same,” said Hornblower, thrusting his feet into his shoes. “I expect he’ll start for Paris at dawn.”
“At dawn? What time is it now?”
“Six bells, I should fancy—three o’clock.”
“Oh!” said Barbara, sinking back on her pillow.
Hornblower pulled on his coat and stopped to kiss her, but she kissed him back only perfunctorily.
The Duke kept him waiting fifteen minutes in the drawing-room of the residence of the departed Prefect where he had been installed. He heard the news with his council round him, and with royal stoicism showed no sign of emotion.
“What about the usurper?” was his first question after hearing what Hornblower had to say.
“His future is partially decided, Your Royal Highness. He has been promised a minor sovereignty,” said Hornblower. It sounded absurd to him as he said it.
“And His Majesty, my uncle?”
“The despatch does not say, Your Royal Highness. Doubtless His Majesty will leave England now. Perhaps he is already on his way.”
“We must be at the Tuileries to receive him.”
Chapter XVI
Hornblower sat in his sitting-room in the Hôtel Meurice in Paris rereading the crackling parchment document that had arrived for him the previous day. The wording of it might be called as gratifying as the purport of it, to one who cared for such things.
As the grandeur and stability of the British Empire depend chiefly upon knowledge and experience in maritime affairs, We esteem those worthy of the highest honours who, acting under Our influence, exert themselves in maintaining Our dominion over the sea. It is for this reason that We have determined to advance to the degree of Peerage Our trusty and well beloved Sir Horatio Hornblower, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, who, being descended from an ancient family in Kent, and educated from his youth in the sea service, hath through several posts arrived to high station and command in Our navy, by the strength of his own abilities, and a merit distinguished by Us, in the many important services, which he has performed with remarkable fidelity, courage and success. In the late vigorous wars, which raged so many years in Europe; wars fruitful of naval combats and expeditions; there was scarce any action of consequence wherein he did not bear a principal part, nor were any dangers or difficulties too great, but he surmounted them by his exquisite conduct, and a good fortune that never failed him.”