Hornblower shook himself free from a clinging tangle of thoughts and memories, of Barbara and Nathaniel Sweet, to find himself still staring abstractedly at the young seaman who had brought to him Freeman’s message regarding Lebrun’s request.

“My compliments to Mr. Freeman, and he can send this fellow in to me,” he said.

“Aye aye, sir,” said the seaman, his knuckles to his forehead, turning away with intense relief. The Commodore had been looking through and through him for three minutes at least—three hours, it seemed like, to the seaman.

An armed guard brought Lebrun into the cabin, and Hornblower looked him keenly over. He was one of the half-dozen prisoners taken when the Porta Coeli came into Le Havre, one of the deputation which had mounted her deck to welcome her under the impression that she was the Flame coming in to surrender.

“Monsieur speaks French?” said Lebrun.

“A little.”

“More than a little, if all the tales about Captain Hornblower are true,” replied Lebrun.

“What is your business?” snapped Hornblower, cutting short this Continental floweriness. Lebrun was a youngish man, of olive complexion, with glistening white teeth, who conveyed a general impression of oiliness.

“I am adjoint to Baron Momas, Mayor of Le Havre.”

“Yes?” Hornblower tried to show no sign of interest, but he knew that under the Imperial régime the mayor of a large town like Le Havre was a most important person, and that his adjoint–his assistant, or deputy—was a very important permanent official.

“The firm of Momas Frères is one you must have heard of. It has traded with the Americas for generations—the history of its rise is identical with the history of the development of Le Havre itself.”

“Yes?”

“Similarly, the war and the blockade have had a most disastrous effect upon the fortunes both of the firm of Momas and upon the city of Le Havre.”

“Yes?”

“The Caryatide, the vessel that you so ingeniously captured two days ago, monsieur, might have restored the fortunes of us all—a single vessel running the blockade, as you will readily understand, is worth ten vessels arriving in peacetime.”

“Yes?”

“M. le Baron and the city of Le Havre will be desperate, I have no doubt, as the result of her capture before her cargo could be taken out.”

“Yes?”

The two men eyed each other, like duellists during a pause, Hornblower determined to betray none of the curiosity and interest that he felt, and Lebrun hesitating before finally committing himself.

“I take it, monsieur, that anything further I have to say will be treated as entirely confidential.”

“I promise nothing. In fact, I can only say that it will be my duty to report anything you say to the Government of His Majesty of Great Britain.”

“They will be discreet for their own sake, I expect,” ruminated Lebrun.

“His Majesty’s ministers can make their own decisions,” said Hornblower.

“You are aware, monsieur,” said Lebrun, obviously taking the plunge, “that Bonaparte has been defeated in a great battle at Leipzig?”

“Yes.”

“The Russians are on the Rhine.”

“That is so.”

“The Russians are on the Rhine!” repeated Lebrun, marvelling. The whole world, pro-Bonaparte or anti-Bonaparte, was marvelling that the massive Empire should have receded half across Europe in those few short months.

“And Wellington is marching on Toulouse,” added Hornblower—there was no harm in reminding Lebrun of the British threat in the south.

“That is so. The Empire cannot much longer endure.”

“I am glad to hear your opinion in the matter.”

“And when the Empire falls there will be peace, and when peace comes trade will recommence.”

“Without a doubt,” said Hornblower, still a little mystified.

“Profits will be enormous during the first few months. All Europe has for years been deprived of foreign produce. At this moment genuine coffee commands a price of over a hundred francs a pound.”

Now Lebrun was showing his hand, more involuntarily than voluntarily. There was a look of avarice in his face which told Hornblower much.

“All this is obvious, monsieur,” said Hornblower, non-committally.

“A firm which was prepared for the moment of peace, with its warehouses gorged with colonial produce ready to distribute, would greatly benefit. It would be far ahead of its competitors. There would be millions to be made. Millions.” Lebrun was obviously dreaming of the possibility of finding some of those millions in his own pocket.

“I have a great deal of business to attend to, monsieur,” said Hornblower. “Have the goodness to come to the point.”

“His Majesty of Great Britain might well allow his friends to make those preparations in advance,” said Lebrun, the words coming slowly; well they might, for they could take him to the guillotine if Bonaparte ever heard of them. Lebrun was offering to betray the Empire in exchange for commercial advantages.

“His Majesty would first need undeniable proof that his friends were his friends,” said Hornblower.

“A quid pro quo,” said Lebrun, thereby for the first time during the conversation putting Hornblower at a loss—the Frenchman’s pronunciation of Latin being quite unlike anything he was accustomed to, so that he had to grope about in his mind wondering what unaccustomed word Lebrun was using before at length he understood.

“You may tell me the nature of your offer, monsieur,” said Hornblower with solemn dignity, “but I can make no promises of any sort in return. His Majesty’s Government will probably refuse to bind themselves in any way whatsoever.”

It was curious how he found himself aping the ministerial manner and diction—it might have been his solemn brother-in-law, Wellesley, speaking. Maybe high politics had that effect on everyone; it was useful in this particular case, because it helped him to conceal his eagerness.

“A quid pro quo,” said Lebrun, again, thoughtfully. “Supposing the city of Le Havre declared itself against the Empire, declared itself for Louis XVIII?”

The possibility had occurred to Hornblower, but he had put it aside as being potentially too good to be true.

“Supposing it did?” he said cautiously.

“It might be the example for which the Empire is waiting. It might be infectious. Bonaparte could not survive such a blow.”

“He has survived many blows.”

“But none of this sort. And if Le Havre declared for the King the city would be in alliance with Great Britain. The blockade could not continue to apply. Or if it did a licence to import could be granted to the house of Momas Frères, could it not?”

“Possibly. Remember, I make no promises.”

“And when Louis XVIII was restored to the throne of his fathers he would look with kindness upon those who first declared for him,” said Lebrun. “The adjoint to Baron Momas might expect to find a great career open to him.”

“No doubt of that,” agreed Hornblower. “But—you have spoken of your own sentiments. Can you be sure of those of M. le Baron? And whatever may be M. le Baron’s sentiments, how can he be sure that the city would follow him should he declare himself?”

“I can answer for the Baron, I assure you, sir. I know—I have certain knowledge of his thoughts.”

Probably Lebrun had been spying on his master on behalf of the Imperial Government, and had no objection to applying his knowledge in another and more profitable cause.

“But the city? The other authorities?”

“The day you took me prisoner, sir,” said Lebrun, “there arrived from Paris some sample proclamations and advance notice of some Imperial decrees. The proclamations were to be printed—my last official act was to give the order—and next Monday the proclamations were to be posted and the decrees made public.”

“Yes?”

“They are the most drastic in the drastic history of the Empire. Conscription—the last of the class of 1815 is to be called, and the classes all the way back to that of 1802 are to be revised. Boys of seventeen, cripples, invalids, fathers of families, even those who have purchased exemption; they are all to be called.”