"Forester, C S - Hornblower 09 - Lord Hornblower" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forester C S)

"Yes, my lord."
Brown had not stumbled over the new title once in the twenty-four hours he had borne it; Hornblower felt in his exasperation that he would have given anything for Brown to slip into 'Aye aye, sir'. But Brown was too clear-headed and quick-thinking a person to make any such blunder; it was surprising that Brown should have elected to stay on in his service. He might well have made a career for himself.
"You're not listening to a word I'm saying," said Barbara.
"Please forgive me, dear," said Hornblower - there was no denying the accusation.
"It's very important indeed," said Barbara. "Arthur is going to Vienna to represent us at the Congress. Castlereagh has to come home to manage the House."
"Arthur will give up the Embassy?" asked Hornblower, making polite conversation. The carriage roared over the cobbles; the occasional lights revealed through the windows the bustling multi-uniformed crowd of Paris in the whirl of peace.
"Of course. This is much more important. All the world will be in Vienna - every Court, in the world will be represented."
"I suppose so," said Hornblower. The destinies of the world were to be decided at the Congress.
"That's what I was going to tell you about. Arthur will need a hostess there - there'll be constant entertaining, of course - and he has asked me to come and act for him."
"My God!" Polite conversation had led straight to the brink of this abyss.
"Don't you think it's wonderful?" asked Barbara.
Hornblower was on the point of saying 'Yes, dear' when rebellion surged up within him. He had endured for his wife's sake uncounted martyrdoms already. And this would be one far more violent and prolonged. Barbara would be the lady of the house, hostess of the most important delegate to the most important Congress in the world. The seeds of diplomacy, Hornblower had already learned, were planted far more often in drawing-rooms than in Cabinets. Barbara's drawing-room would be a place of intrigue and double-dealing. She would be hostess, Wellington would be the man of the house, and he - what would he be? Something even more unnecessary than he was at present. Hornblower saw stretching before him a three months' vista of salons and balls and visits to the ballet, outside the inner circle, outside the outer circle too. No Cabinet secrets would be entrusted to him, and he did not want to have anything to do with the petty gossip and polite scandal of the great world. A fish out of water was what he would be - and not a bad metaphor, either, when applied to a naval officer in the salons of Vienna.
"You don't answer me?" said Barbara. "I'm utterly damned if I'll do it!" said Hornblower - strange that, with all his tact and intuition, he always took a sledge-hammer in his rare arguments with Barbara, to kill flies with.
"You won't do it, dear?"
In the course of that brief sentence Barbara's tone changed from disappointment at the beginning to bitter hostility at the end.
"No!" said Hornblower, in a roar. He had kept the lid on his feelings for so long and so tightly that the explosion was violent when it came.
"You'll deprive me of the greatest thing that has ever happened to me?" said Barbara, a hint of ice edging the words.
Hornblower fought down his feelings. It would be easier to give way - ever so easy. But no, he would not. Could not. Yet Barbara was quite right about its being a wonderful thing. To be hostess to a European Congress, to help mould the future of the world - and then, on the other hand, Hornblower had no wish whatever to be a member, and an unimportant member at that, of the Wellesley clan. He had been captain of a ship too long. He did not like politics, not even politics on a European scale. He did not want to kiss the hands of Hungarian countesses, and exchange inanities with Russian grand dukes. That had been fun in the old days when his professional reputation hinged on some such success, as it had done. But he needed more of a motive than the mere maintenance of his reputation as a beau.
Quarrels in a carriage always seemed to reach a climax just as the drive ended. The carriage had halted and porters in the Wellington livery were opening the door before Hornblower had had time either to explain or make amends. As they walked into the Embassy Hornblower's apprehensive side glances revealed that Barbara's colour was high and her eyes dangerously bright. So they remained during the whole of the reception; Hornblower looked across the room at her whenever he could, and every time she was clearly in high spirits, or laughing with the groups in conversation with her, tapping with her fan. Was she flirting? The red coats and the blue coats, the black coats and the green coats, that assembled round her bent their shoulders in obvious deference to her. Every glance Hornblower took seemed to increase his resentment.
But he fought it down, determined to make amends.
"You had better go to Vienna, dear," he said, as they were once more in the carriage on their way to the Polignacs'. "Arthur needs you - it's your duty."
"And you?" Barbara's tone was still chilly.
"You don't need me. The skeleton at the feast, dear. I'll go to Smallbridge."
"That is very kind of you," said Barbara. Proud as she was, she resented a little having to be beholden to anyone. To ask permission was bad enough; to receive grudging permission was dreadful.
Yet here they were at the Polignacs'.
"Milord and milady Hornblower," roared the major-domo.
They paid their respects to the Prince, received their hosts' and hostess's greetings. What in the world - ? What - ? Hornblower's head was spinning. His heart was pounding, and there was a roaring in his ears like when he had battled for his life in the waters of the Loire. The whole glittering room was seemingly banked in fog, save for a single face. Marie was looking at him across the room, a troubled smile on her lips. Marie! Horablower swept his hand over his face, forced himself to think clearly as he had sometimes had to do when exhausted in battle. Marie! Not so many months before his marriage to Barbara he had told Marie he loved her, and he had been on the verge of sincerity when he said it. And she had told him she loved him, and he had felt her tears on his face. Marie the tender, the devoted, the sincere. Marie, who had needed him, whose memory he had betrayed to marry Barbara.
He forced himself to cross the room to her, to kiss with simple formality the hand she offered. That troubled smile was still on her lips; she had looked like that when - when - when he had selfishly taken all she had to give, like some thoughtless child claiming a sacrifice from a loving mother. How could he meet her eyes again? And yet he did. They looked each other over with mock whimsicality. Hornblower had the impression of something vivid and vital. Marie was dressed in cloth of gold. Her eyes seemed to burn into him - that was no careless metaphor. Mentally he tried to cling to Barbara, like a shipwrecked sailor to a broken mast tossing in the surf. Barbara slim and elegant; and Marie warm and opulent. Barbara in white which did not do her justice, Marie in gold. Barbara's blue eyes, sparkling, and Marie's brown eyes, warm and tender. Barbara's hair fair and almost brown; Marie's, golden and almost auburn. It did not do to think about Barbara while looking at Marie.
Here was the Count, quizzically kindly, awaiting his attention - the kindliest man in all the world, whose three sons had died for France, and who had told Hornblower once that he felt towards him as towards a son. Hornblower clasped hands with him in an outpouring of affection. The introductions were not easy. It was not easy to introduce his wife and his mistress.
"Lady Hornblower - Mme la Vicomtesse de Gra?ay. Barbara, my dear - M. le Comte de Gra?ay."
Were they sizing each other up, these two women? Were they measuring swords, his wife and his mistress, the woman whom he had publicly chosen and the one he had privately loved?
"It was M. le Comte," said Hornblower, feverishly, "and his daughter-in-law who helped me escape from France. They hid me until the pursuit was over."
"I remember," said Barbara. She turned to them and spoke in her shocking schoolroom French. "I am eternally grateful to you for what you did for my husband."
It was difficult. There was a puzzled look on the faces of Marie and the Count; this was nothing like the wife Hornblower had described to them four years ago when he had been a fugitive hidden in their house. They could hardly be expected to know that Maria was dead and that Hornblower had promptly married Barbara, who was as unlike her predecessor as she well could be.
"We would do as much again, madame," said the Count. "Fortunately there will never be any need."
"And Lieutenant Bush?" asked Marie of Hornblower. "I hope he is well?"
"He is dead, madame. He was killed in the last month of the war. He was a captain before he died."
"Oh!"
It was silly to say he had been a captain. For anyone else it would not have been. A naval officer hungered and yearned so inexpressibly for that promotion that speaking of a casual acquaintance one could think his death requited by his captaincy. But not with Bush.
"I am sorry," said the Count. He hesitated before he spoke again - now that they had emerged from the nightmare of war it was apprehensively that one asked about old friends who might have been killed. "But Brown? That pillar of strength? He's well?"
"Perfectly well, M. le Comte. He is my confidential servant at this moment."
"We read a little about your escape," said Marie.
"In the usual garbled Bonaparte form," added the Count, "You took a ship - the - the -"
"The Witch of Endor, sir."
Was all this too painful or too pleasant? Memories were crowding in on him, memories of the Ch?teau de Gra?ay, of the escape down the Loire, of the glorious return to England; memories of Bush; and memories - honey-sweet memories - of Marie. He met her eyes, and the kindness in them was unfathomable. God! This was unendurable.
"But we have not done what we should have done at the very first," said the Count. "We have not offered our felicitations, our congratulations, on the recognition your services have received from your country. You are an English lord, and I well know how much that implies. My sincerest congratulations, milord. Nothing - nothing can ever give me greater pleasure."
"Nor me," said Marie.
"Thank you, thank you," said Hornblower. He bowed shyly. It was for him, too, one of the greatest pleasures in his life to see the pride and affection beaming in the old Count's face.
Hornblower became aware that Barbara standing by had lost the thread of the conversation. He offered her a hurried English translation, and she nodded and smiled to the Count - but the translation was a false move. It would have been better to have let Barbara blunder along with French; once he started interpreting for her the barrier of language was raised far higher, and he was put into the position of intermediary between his wife and his friends, tending to keep her at a distance.
"You are enjoying life in Paris, madame?" asked Marie.