“I’m afraid it’s a lunatic, my lord.”
“A lunatic?”
“He says he’s Napoleon Bonaparte, my lord.”
“God bless my soul! And what does he want here?”
Even at seventytwo there was a little tingle of quickened blood in arteries and veins at the chance of action. A man who thought he was Napoleon Bonaparte might well intend causing trouble when coming to the house of Admiral of the Fleet Lord Hornblower. But Browns next words were not so promising of trouble.
“He wishes to borrow a carriage and horses, my lord.”
“What for?”
“It seems there has been trouble on the railway, my lord. He says he must reach Dover as soon as possible to catch the Calais packet. His business, he says, is of the greatest importance.”
“What is he like?”
“He is dressed like a gentleman, my lord.”
“H’m.”
It was not so very long ago that the railway had made its way round the edge of the park at Smallbridge, sullying the fair fields of Kent on its way to Dover. From the upper windows of the house the foul smoke of the engines could be seen, and the raucous sound of their whistles could be heard. But the worst prognostications of the pessimists had not been realized. The cows still gave down their milk, the pigs still harrowed, the orchards still bore their fruit, and there had been singularly few accidents.
“Will that be all, my lord?” asked Brown, recalling his master to the fact that there was still an intruder in the outer hall who had to be dealt with.
“No. Bring him in here,” said Hornblower.
The life of a country gentleman might be pleasant and secure but sometimes it was damnably dull.
“Very good, my lord.”
Hornblower took a glance in the ormolu mirror over the fireplace as Brown withdrew; his cravat and his shirt front were in good order, the sparse white hairs were tidy, and there was something of the old twinkle in the brown eyes under the snowwhite eyebrows. Brown returned and held the door as he made his announcement.
“Mr Napoleon Bonaparte.”
It was not the figure that the prints had made so familiar that came into the room. No green coat and white breeches, no cocked hat and epaulettes; the man who entered wore a civilian suit of grey, apparent under an unbuttoned cloak with a cape. The grey was nearly black with wet; the man was soaked to the skin, and as high as the knees of his tight strapped trousers he was plastered with mud; but he would have been a dandy had his clothes not been in so deplorable a condition. There was something about his figure that might recall Bonaparte’s—the short legs that made his height a little below average—and there might be something about the grey eyes that studied Hornblower so keenly in the candlelight, but the rest of his appearance was unexpectedly not even a parody or a travesty of the Emperor’s. He actually wore a heavy moustache and a little tuft of beard—if anyone could imagine the great Napoleon with a moustache!—and instead of the short hair with the lock drooping on the forehead this man wore his hair fashionably long; it would have been in ringlets over the ears if it had not been so wet that it hung in rats’ tails.
“Good evening, sir,” said Hornblower.
“Good evening. Lord Hornblower, I understand?”
“That is so.”
The newcomer spoke good English, but with a decided accent. But it did not seem to be the accent of a Frenchman.
“I must apologize for intruding upon you at this time.”
Mr Bonaparte’s gesture towards the polished dining-table showed that he was appreciative of the importance of the period of digestion after dinner.
“Please do not give it another thought, sir,” said Hornblower. “And if it should be more convenient for you to speak French pray do so.”
“French or English are equally convenient to me, my lord. Or German or Italian, for that matter.”
Now once again that was not like the Emperor—Hornblower had read that his Italian was bad and that he spoke no English at all. A strange sort of madman this must be. Yet that gesture had opened the cloak a little further, and within it Hornblower could see a broad red ribbon and the glitter of a star. The man was wearing the Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honour, so he must be insane. One final test—
“How should I address you, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“As Your Highness, if you could be so good, my lord. Or as Monseigneur—that might be more convenient.”
“Very well, Your Highness. My butler gave me a not very clear account of how I might be of service to Your Highness. Perhaps Your Highness would be kind enough to command me?”
“The kindness is yours, my lord. I tried to explain to your butler that the railway line beside your park has been blocked. The train I was in was unable to proceed farther.”
“Most regrettable, Your Highness. These modern inventions—”
“They have their inconveniences. I understand that as a result of the recent heavy rain the embankment in what they call a cutting has given way, and a large mass of earth, to the amount of some hundreds of tons, has fallen on the rails.”
“Indeed, Your Highness?”
“Yes, I was given to understand that it might even be a matter of some days before the line is clear again. And my business is of an importance which will not brook the delay of a single hour.”
“Naturally, Your Highness. Affairs of State are invariably pressing.”
This madman talked a strange mixture of sanity and nonsense; and he reacted to Hornblower’s heavyhanded humour quite convincingly. The heavy eyelids raised themselves a trifle, and the cold grey eyes searched Hornblower’s.
“You speak truth, my lord, without, I fear, giving it its full weight. My business is of the greatest importance. Not only does the fate of France hinge upon my arrival in Paris, but the future history of the world—the whole destiny of mankind!”
“The name of Bonaparte implies nothing less, Your Highness,” said Hornblower.
“Europe is falling into anarchy. She is a prey to traitors, selfseekers, ideologues, demagogues, of uncounted fools, and of knaves without number. France under strong guidance again can give order back to the world.”
“Your Highness says no more than the truth.”
“Then you will appreciate the urgency of my business, my lord. The elections are about to be held in Paris, and I must be there—I must be there within fortyeight hours. That is the reason why I waded through mud under a deluge of rain to your house.”
The stranger looked down at his muddaubed clothes and at the trickles of water draining from them.
“I could find your Highness a change of clothing,” suggested Hornblower.
“No time for that, even, thank you, my lord. Farther down the railway line, beyond this unfortunate landslide, and beyond the tunnel—I think at a place called Maidstone—I can catch another train which will take me to Dover. From thence the steam packet to Calais—the train to Paris—and my destiny!”
“So Your Highness wishes to be driven to Maidstone?”
“Yes, my lord.”
It was eight miles of fairly easy road—not an impossibly extravagant request from a stranger in distress. But the wind was southwesterly—Hornblower pulled himself up with a jerk. These steam packets paid no attention to wind or tide, although it was hard for a man who had all his life commanded sailing vessels to remember it. The madman had a sane enough plan up to a point—as far as Paris. There he would presumably be put away in an asylum where he would be harmless and unharmed. Not even the excitable French would do anything to injure so entertaining an eccentric. But it would be hard on the coachman to have to turn out on a night like this and drive sixteen miles at a madman’s whim. Hornblower changed his mind again. He was wondering how to decline the request without hurting the poor soul’s feelings when the door from the drawingroom opened to admit Barbara. She was tall and straight and beautiful and dignified; now that the years had made Hornblower stoopshouldered her eyes were on a level with his.