De Montrichard's "chambers" might be no more than a pair of garret rooms at The Lilies, one in a warren of similar quarters let out to titled emigre paupers, but he kept a lackey nonetheless, and he or the lackey kept Hoare pacing the low corridor outside his door for a half-hour's eternity.
The comte received him in a bare bleak chamber. It smelled of damp plaster and contained one hard chair, one desk, and a number of spanking-new seachests and boxes. Hoare had, he guessed, caught him in mid-move. Some, he saw, bore different crests. Could they, or some of them, belong to the late duc?
The comte's pale, narrow face was set in lines of sour and apparently permanent disapproval. He wore the same oddly different naval uniform that Hoare had seen on the duc's body, and like the duc's, the heavy bullion epaulettes he wore on each shoulder could never have seen salt air.
He received Hoare standing and began without greeting. "You have come here, I understand, to solicit information concerning the death of the Duc de Provins. Is that the case?" Hoare was not one to be outdone in matters of icy courtesy. He nodded assent and waited. "It should be obvious even to an Englishman," said the outwaited count at last, "that De Barsac killed him. Or perhaps you did not notice the provenance of the broken sword."
"I did, monsieur." Hoare waited again, counted fifteen of his slow pulses, and continued. "You are a member of his late grace's court, sir, I believe?"
"Your belief is in error. Until yesterday I was indeed a member of His Royal Highness's 'court,' as you are pleased to call it, though how it is any concern of yours escapes me entirely. In fact, I was his sole equerry. As for the comtesse my wife… that, now, was quite a different matter and is not one for discussion with you."
De Montrichard, Hoare said to himself, had probably been born sneering. Tucking the expression into his mental commonplace book for possible future use, he renewed the waiting game. Again he won; the count continued. "However, since yesterday I have had the honor to command His Most Christian Majesty's ship Vendee."
"Have you been read in, then?"
Montrichard visibly choked down an order for Hoare to take his questions and swallow them. Perhaps he recalled just in time that he would be at the mercy of Hoare's master for the fitting out of his new command, for he simply said, "In the French navy, monsieur, command takes effect when the officer receives his appointment, as I have." For the first time, the comte offered the honorific common between gentlemen. "Indeed, I have just returned from Admiralty House, where I presented the document in question to your admiral."
"My congratulations, then, mon capitaine," Hoare whispered. "And when do you actually board your new command?"
"As soon as arrangements for the ceremony of transfer have been completed. Tomorrow, I expect. You are, of course, welcome to be present."
To Hoare's ears the invitation lacked something of sincerity.
"I shall be overjoyed to accept," he answered as he made his farewell bow. He found himself more than curious to tread, as a guest, the quarterdeck he himself might have paced as commander. It would be a bittersweet experience, he expected.
At Admiralty House, the flag secretary, Patterson, informed him that the comte had, indeed, presented the precious document.
"It's right here," he said. He handed it over for Hoare to peruse. "Sir George is closeted with Captain Pottle again. Will that man take no for an answer? Never on your life, sir."
Except for being in French, the letter of appointment, crudely printed except for spaces where names were added in manuscript, was virtually identical to the form employed by the admiralty. A tidy signature and an ornate seal appeared at the foot of the paper.
"Made the translation myself for the poor duke last month," Patterson said with modest pride.
It had grown late. Hoare betook himself to his own quiet quarters at The Swallowed Anchor in the eastern part of the town.
The sky was was still an arctic blue the next morning when Hoare emerged into the street. Facing south, he was buffeted by a biting northerly breeze; he must needs hold onto his hat.
Hoare first returned to The Three Suns, where he asked the porter a question. Pollard demurred but upon being fixed with Hoare's glittering eye told him that no, the countess and that 'orrible maid had remained in her rooms from the time the late dook departed until she went out to view his corpse yesterday. Strike him blue if he wasn't telling God's truth.
As Hoare turned away, a worn notice struck his eye. Partially obscured by a recent playbill and partially obscuring an ancient recruiting poster, it read:
TO BE SOLD, UPON ATTRACTIVE TERMS
A RECENTLY OVERHAULED SMALL BARGE
CONVERTED FOR PLEASURE SAILING
BY A NAVAL GENTLEMAN
INQUIRE AT 14, HIGHBURY STREET, IN CARE OF MASON.
Ever since being forever barred from going to sea again as a naval officer, Hoare had itched at least to sail saltwater again. Upon the signing of peace, he had received a gratifying dividend on some of his shares in John Company. He had now questioned everyone he could think of, and he was at a loss. Perhaps a change in viewpoint would help. He shrugged and made his way to Highbury Street.
His smart rap on the door to Number 14 was answered by a squat woman with a commanding look. To Hoare she bore the insignia of "landlady" as clearly as if the word had been tattooed across her red forehead. "About the yacht, advertised for sale," he whispered.
She looked him up and down. "Wait here," she said, and closed the door in Hoare's face. He did not catch the name she roared up the stairs within.
In a moment a blaring sneeze sounded from behind the door, and a fellow lieutenant emerged, wiping his streaming nose. He was about Hoare's own size and frame but appeared ten years or so younger. Like Cassius, Hoare thought, this officer wore a lean and hungry look; a mark on his unornamented left shoulder suggested that at one time he had held commander's rank. The eyes above the inflamed nose looked anxious. "You called about the yacht, sir?"
"Yes, sir," Hoare whispered. "Hoare, Bartholomew Hoare."
"Hornblower, sir. Horatio Hornblower."
"Not Hornblower of Retribution?"
"The same, sir," said the other.
"Oh dear," Hoare said. Hornblower's ill luck was well known. He had been made commander and brought to England the sloop Retribution-Gaditana, as she had been at the time of her capture in Samana Bay. But then the commissioners had not confirmed his appointment because it had been made after peace had been signed. Now the wretch was being compelled to return, bit by precious bit, the pay he had drawn during his brief tenure in the rank.
"Would your cold prevent you from showing me your craft?"
"Not at all, sir. Happy. This way."
Hornblower did not return for an outer garment but raised the collar of his uniform coat to protect his ears, hunched his shoulders, and thrust his hands into his pockets. He sneezed.
It came out as the two betook themselves to the berth of the vessel in question that during his happy few weeks as master and commander in Retribution Hornblower had indulged himself by squandering his prize money on a small naval barge and refitting it as a yacht in which he could carry himself and a companion on short cruises about the Solent. Now, of course, keeping her was out of the question. He must put his beloved up for sale and live upon the proceeds somehow until he had paid off the rapacious clerks of the Admiralty Office.
Hoare lost his heart to Thunderer at once. She lay snug at a small floating pier below the Hard, to which the more knowledgeable captains chose to direct their coxswains. Like a lass well aware of her beauty, she glowed. She was under thirty feet in length, a seven ton craft at the most. Either of the two tall officers could reach halfway to her miniature crosstrees. Forward of her mast lay a cuddy. Sadly yet proudly Hornblower unlocked it.
"Please," he said to Hoare with a flourish. He blew his nose.
The cuddy was icy but snug. Its overhead was just high enough for them to crouch upon lockers set on either side of a table whose base extended the full length of the cuddy.
"The enclosure of one of Mr. Gunter's patent sliding keels," Hornblower explained. "I installed it so I could explore shallow waters as well as work to windward moderately well."
Hoare nodded. "I see."
"Would you like to take her out?" Hornblower's eyes were all but pleading. He blew his nose.
"If it would not trouble you."
"Not at all," Hornblower said. "I have no duties to occupy my time."
His voice carried a trace of bitterness, Hoare thought, and not without reason. It was bad enough that their Lordships of the Admiralty had seen fit to throw their seamen on the beach to starve; that they would do the same for their trained, loyal officers passed all belief.
Between them the two had Thunderer's jib and loose-footed gaff mainsail set in minutes. They cast off smartly and let her run free through the light chop of the inner harbor. With the wind astern, the cold was less painful. Nevertheless, Hornblower chose to slip below and put on an oilcloth jacket. Above it his wet blue nose protruded.