‘I swear it!’ He accepted a glass of wine from Gordon, and perched himself on the arm of a chair. ‘Confusion to Boney!’ he said, and drank. ‘And General Röder!’ he resumed.
‘Confusion to him too, sir?’ murmured Gordon.
‘No—yes! The worst of our Tigers! Have you met General Röder, Charles? He doesn’t like the British, he doesn’t like the Dutch, he doesn’t like the Belgians, he doesn’t like the French, he doesn’t even like your humble servant. So here is confusion to General Röder!’
While this toast was being drunk, a pleasant-faced officer in Dutch uniform had peeped round the curtain and then come into the room. He was considerably older than any of the young men drinking confusion to the unfortunate Prussian Commissioner, but was hailed by them with cheerful affection.
‘Hallo, Baron! Come in!’ said Audley. ‘How are you?’
‘Glass of wine with you, Baron?’ Fremantle held up the decanter invitingly.
‘Constant! We are drinking confusion to General von Röder. Join us immediately!’ commanded his Royal master.
The Baron Constant de Rebecque glanced swiftly over his shoulder. He accepted a glass of wine, but said in very good English: ‘I beg of you, sir—! Consider where you are, and who you are, and—very well, very well, here is confusion to him, then! And now will you recollect, sir, that this is a fête for their Majesties, and it is expected that you will conduct yourself en prince! Your absence will be noticed: his Majesty will be displeased.’
The Prince shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is absurd. I will not spend all the evening being civil to the Tigers, and I will not conduct myself en prince if that means I must not drink a glass of wine with my friends.’
‘Sir, you are also the General in Command of the Army, and not any more a junior aide-de-camp.’
The Prince patted his arm. ‘Constant, mon pauvre, you have not seen—you have not heard! You are dreaming, in fact. Go and look who is here tonight. My poor command is quite at an end.’
‘Mon Prince, you are still in command, and you must mingle with your guests.’
‘That’s quite true, sir,’ said Fremantle. ‘The Duke hasn’t taken over the command yet. Duty calls you, General!’
At this moment, and while the Prince still looked recalcitrant, a very tall man with the buff collar and silver lace of the 52nd Regiment appeared between the curtains, and stood silently surveying the group. He was Saxon fair, with ice-blue eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a fighting chin, and was built on splendid lines that were marred only by the droop of his right shoulder, the joint of which had become anchylosed, from a wound incurred in the Peninsula. At sight of him, Lord March straightened himself instinctively, and Colonel Fremantle jumped up from his chair.
The Prince turned his head, and pulled a grimace. ‘You need not tell me! You are looking for me. First my quarter-master-general, and now my military secretary. Your health, Sir John!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colonel Colborne in his slow deep voice. A smile crept into his eyes. ‘I thought I should find you with the riffraff of the staff,’ he remarked. ‘If I were your Highness, I would return to the ballroom.’
‘Because my father will be displeased,’ said the Prince. ‘I have that by heart.’
‘No,’ replied Sir John. ‘Because his Majesty is more than likely to request the Duke to speak to you, sir.’
‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ exclaimed the Prince, preparing for instant flight. ‘You are entirely right! Charles, my hôtel is in the Rue de Brabant! I charge you, don’t forget! I will go and do my duty, and dance with all the ugly old women. Would you like to be presented to a fat Frau? No? Well, then, au revoir!’
‘Stay a moment!’ said Colonel Audley suddenly. ‘Do that for me, sir, will you?’
The Prince paused in the doorway, looking back with a laugh in his eyes. ‘What, present you to a fat Frau?’
‘No, to the Lady Barbara Childe.’
The Prince’s brow shot up; a low whistle broke from Lord March; Colonel Fremantle said solicitously: ‘My poor fellow, you are not yourself. Take my advice and go quietly home to bed.’
Audley reddened, but only said: ‘I am perfectly serious. I have been trying for the past hour to get an introduction, but there’s no coming near her for the crown round her. You could present me, sir, if you would.’
‘Steal into the supper-room and change the tickets on the tables,’ suggested March flippantly.
‘Don’t do it, sir!’ recommended Fremantle.
The Prince laughed. ‘But Charles, this is the road to ruin! Really, you wish it?’
‘Most earnestly, sir.’
‘Come, then, but mind, I am not to be blamed for the consequences!’
Colonel Audley had not exaggerated the difficulty of approaching Barbara Childe. When she left the dancing-floor on the arm of her partner she became engulfed in a crowd of impatient supplicants who would scarcely give place to any under the rank of a general. All had, however, to fall back before the Prince of Orange, who led Colonel Audley up to her ladyship, and said with his appealing smile: ‘Lady Barbara, I want to present to you a friend of mine who desires beyond anything this introduction. Colonel Audley—Lady Barbara Childe!’