The Long Rooms were full with the evening crowd. At nearly every table in the outer room there were earnest parties playing serious games, while through the curtained door that opened into the inner room came a continuous murmur that indicated that play in there was exciting and noisy. But for Bush standing restlessly by the fire, occasionally exchanging absentminded remarks with the people who came and went, there was only one point of interest, and that was the candlelit table near the wall where Hornblower was playing in very exalted society. His companions were the two admirals and a colonel of infantry, the latter a bulky man with a face almost as red as his coat, whom Parry had brought with him along with Admiral Lambert. The flag lieutenant who had previously partnered Parry was now relegated to the role of onlooker, and stood beside Bush, and occasionally made incomprehensible remarks about the play. The Marquis had looked in more than once. Bush had observed his glance to rest upon the table with something of approval. No matter if there were others who wanted to play; no matter if the rules of the room gave any visitor the right to join a table at the conclusion of a rubber; a party that included two flag officers and a field officer could do as it pleased.
Hornblower had won the first rubber to Bush’s enormous relief, although actually he had not been able to follow the details of the play and the score well enough to know that such was the case until the cards were swept up and payments made. He saw Hornblower tuck away some money into that breast pocket.
“It would be pleasant,” said Admiral Parry, “if we could restore the old currency, would it not? If the country could dispense with these dirty notes and go back again to our good old golden guineas?”
“Indeed it would,” said the colonel.
“The longshore sharks,” said Lambert, “meet every ship that comes in from abroad. Twentythree and sixpence they offer for every guinea, so you can be sure they are worth more than that.”
Parry took something from his pocket and laid it on the table.
“Boney has restored the French currency, you see,” he said. “They call this a napoleon, now that he is First Consul for life. A twentyfranc piece—a louis d’or, as we used to say.”
“Napoleon, First Consul,” said the colonel, looking at the coin with curiosity, and then he turned it over. “French Republic.”
“The ‘republic’ is mere hypocrisy, of course,” said Parry. “There never was a worse tyranny since the days of Nero.”
“We’ll show him up,” said Lambert.