"With his wife out of favor," Hornblower repeated for him, "Montrichard now had no hold over her lover, Provins. Now he could no longer expect him to sign the orders placing him in command of Vendee. He saw his opportunity for advancement to honor vanishing, and he could not bear it. "In that, of course, he utterly misread his master. De Barsac's anger at Provins was, in fact, due to the duc's explanation that, in all fairness to his equerry and confidant Montrichard, he could not deprive him of his standing as husband of a royal maitresse en titre without some compensation. While wholly unofficial, the role had given Montrichard a certain cachet, and he had done nothing to warrant losing it. So Provins would grant the command of Vendee to Montrichard instead of De Barsac.
"But Montrichard could not credit Provins with being, like his ancestor Bayard, a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. He was desperate. He would become a nothing among nothings in a nothing French court. He could not face the shame of it. So he forged his master's signature on a blank commission form, sealed it with his master's seal, and presented the document at Admiralty House."
There was a general murmur among the Frenchmen on Vendee's quarterdeck. Hoare was certain that a tear gleamed on Angouleme's powdered cheek. "But you have no proof, monsieur," said Angouleme coldly.
Hoare's answering shrug was as expressive as any Frenchman's. "The comte, by his own action just now, would appear to have provided ample proof. Beyond that, perhaps even more will surface."
"Hmph," said Admiral Sir George Hardcastle. "Well, gentlemen, are we to transfer this ship to the Marine Royale, or not? If so, who is to command her?"
"Sir," Hoare whispered, and handed Sir George the document the Vicomtesse de Barsac had entrusted to him. Even though his port admiral read no French, he would recognize the person named in it.
"Hmph," said Sir George, and passed the document to Angouleme.
"Of course," said the duc; his English reached that far. "Let us go ashore, then," he added in his own language, "and inform the Vicomte de Barsac, in his lonely cell, of his good fortune."
Left on the deck of Vendee, Hoare and Hornblower looked at each other and shrugged.
"Will you light me ashore in your new command, sir?" Hornblower asked. His expression was that of the classic Spartan boy being gnawed by a fox.
"With pleasure, Mr. Hornblower," said Bartholomew Hoare.
"I do not understand this, Mr. 'Oare." The widowed Comtesse de Montrichard had summoned Hoare to the Three Suns. Tasteful in mourning, she extended a document to Hoare. "I had thought that my husband had deposited this commission with your nice admiral."
"He did, madame. I saw it there myself."
"Why, then, do I find it in the possessions of Guillaume, which your mayor's honest minions returned to me so kindly with those of my late husband?"
Hoare inspected the document more closely. To the best of his more-than-adequate recollection, it had been prepared on the same printed form. Yes, here were the same typographical errors, made by a Portsmouth printer unfamiliar with the language he was setting. The handwritten entries named Vendee as the ship in question, De Montrichard as her master. The date was identical, as was the impression of the seal the mayor's men had found yesterday upon recovering the drowned nobleman's body. And the signature on this specimen was free, quite illegible, not the careful inscription Hoare remembered on the document Montrichard had deposited with Sir George's hands that the clerk Patterson had shown him.
Raising his head from the paper, Hoare looked into the huge, warm, violet eyes.
"This proves, madame, that as I believed, the duc had already given Vendee to his equerry when he was killed."
"Then my husband's crime was without purpose," she said.
"Precisely, madame," whispered Bartholomew Hoare.