The Duke sat with Georgiana beside him. He seemed to be in good spirits; his loud laugh kept breaking out; he had given Georgiana a miniature of himself, done by a Belgian artist, and was protesting jokingly at her showing it to those seated near them.
Supper had hardly begun when the Prince of Orange came into the room, looking very serious. He went straight to the Duke, and bent over him, whispering in his ear.
A despatch had been brought in by one of his aides-de-camp from Baron Constant at Braine-le-Comte. It was dated as late as 10.30 pm, and reported that Charleroi had fallen not two hours after Ziethen’s solitary message had been sent off that morning. The French had advanced twenty miles into Belgian territory. The Prussians had been attacked at Sombreffe by Grouchy, with Vandamme’s Corps in support, and had fallen back on Fleurus; Ney had pushed forward on the left to Frasnes, south of Quatre-Bras, with an advance guard of cavalry, but had encountered there Prince Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar, who, taking the law courageously into his own hands, had moved forward from Genappe with one Nassau battalion and a battery of horse artillery. A skirmish had taken place, but Ney had apparently had insufficient infantry to risk an engagement. He had made some demonstrations, but the handful of troops opposed to him had held their ground, and at seven o’clock he had bivouacked for the night. Prince Bernhard had reported the affair to General Perponcher, who, wisely ignoring the Duke’s positive orders to assemble his division at Nivelles, had directed it instead on the hamlet and crossroads of Quatre-Bras.
The Duke listened to these tidings with an unmoved countenance. He saw that everyone in the room was watching him, and said in a loud voice: ‘Very well! I have no fresh orders to give. I advise your Royal Highness to go back to your quarters and to bed.’
The Prince, whose air of suppressed excitement had escaped no one, withdrew; the Duke resumed his conversation. But the impression created by the Prince’s reappearance was not to be banished; except among those who had no relatives engaged in the operations, conversation had become subdued, and faces that had worn smiles an hour earlier now looked a little haggard in the glare of the candlelight. No one was surprised when the Duke went up to his host, saying cheerfully: ‘I think it’s time for me to go to bed likewise.’ In the distance could be heard the ominous sound of bugles calling to arms; dancing seemed out of place, the Duke’s departure was for most of those present a welcome sign of the party’s breaking up. Wives exchanged nods with their husbands; mothers tried to catch heedless daughters’ eyes; Georgiana Lennox stole away to help her brother March pack up.
The Duke said under his breath: ‘Have you a good map in the house, Richmond?’
Richmond nodded, and led him to his study. The Duke shut the door and said abruptly: ‘Napoleon has humbugged me, by God! He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.’
He walked over to the desk, and bent over the map Richmond had spread out on it, and studied it for a moment or two in silence.
Richmond stood watching him, startled by what he had said and wondering a little that no anxiety should be apparent in his face. ‘What do you intend doing?’ he asked presently.
‘I’ve ordered the Army to concentrate on Quatre-Bras,’ replied his lordship. ‘But we shan’t stop him there, and if so, I must fight him here.’ As he spoke he drew his thumbnail across the map below the village of Waterloo, and straightened himself. ‘I’ll be off now, and get some sleep.’
In the ballroom a few determined couples were still dancing, but with the departure of the officers the zest had gone from the most carefree young female. Ladies were collecting their wraps, carriages were being called for, and a stream of guests were filing past the Duchess of Richmond, returning thanks and taking leave.
Judith, who had gone upstairs to fetch her cloak, was startled, on her way down again, to encounter Barbara, her train caught over her arm, and in her face an expression of the most painful anxiety. She put out her hand impulsively, grasping Judith’s wrist, and said in a strangled voice: ‘Charles! Where is he?’
‘My brother-in-law left the ball before supper,’ replied Judith.
‘O God!’ The hand left Judith’s wrist and gripped the banister-rail. ‘He is in Brussels? Yes, yes, he is still in Brussels! Tell me, confound you, tell me!’
There was a white agony in her face, but Judith was unmoved by it. She said: ‘He is not in Brussels, nor will he return. I wish you goodnight,
Lady Barbara.’
She passed on down the stairs to where Worth stood waiting for her. Their carriage was at the door; in another minute they had entered it, and were being driven out of the gates in the direction of the centre of the town.
Judith leaned back in her corner, trying to compose her spirits. Worth took her hand presently, and held it lightly in his own. ‘What is it, my dear?’
‘That woman!’ she said in a low voice. ‘Barbara Childe! She dared to ask me where Charles had gone. I could have struck her in the face for her effrontery! She let Charles go like that—unhappy, all his old gaiety quite vanished!’ She found that tears were running down her face, and broke off to wipe them away. ‘Don’t let us speak of it! I am tired, and stupid. I shall be better directly.’
He was silent, but continued to hold her hand. After a minute or two she said in a calmer tone: ‘That noise! It seems to thud in my brain. What is it?’
‘The drums beating to war,’ he replied. ‘The Reserve is being put into motion at once.’
She shuddered. As the carriage drew nearer to the Park, the coachman was obliged to curb his horses to a walk, and sometimes bring them to a complete standstill. There was scarcely a house in Brussels where soldiers were not billeted; the sound of the trumpets and the drums brought them out, knapsacks slung over their shoulders, coats unbuttoned, and shakos crammed on askew. Some had wives running beside them; others had their arms round Belgian sweethearts; one Highlander was carrying a little boy on his shoulder, while the child’s parents, who had been his hosts, walked beside with his knapsack and his musket.
In the great Place Royale a scene of indescribable confusion resigned. The sky was already paling towards dawn, and in the ghostly grey light men, horses, wagons, gun-carriages seemed to be inextricably mixed. Wagons were being loaded, and commissariat trains harnessed; the air was full of a medley of noises: the stamp of hooves on the cobbles, the rumble of wheels, the jingle of harness, the sudden neigh of a horse and the indistinguishable chatter of many voices. An officer called sharply; someone was whistling a popular air; a mounted man rode past; a Colour waved. Soldiers were sitting on the pavement, some sleeping on packs of straw, others checking the contents of their knapsacks.
Judith, who had been leaning forward in the carriage, intent upon the scene, turned suddenly towards Worth. ‘Let us get out!’
‘Do you care to? You are not too tired?’
‘No. I want to see.’
He opened the door and stepped down on to the cobbles, and turned to give his hand to her. She stood beside him while he spoke with the coachman, and then took his arm. They made their way slowly across the Place. No one paid any heed to them; occasionally a soldier brushed past them, or they had to draw aside to allow a wagon to go by, or to pick their way through a tangle of ropes, canteens, corn-sacks, bill-hooks, nose-bags, and all the paraphernalia of an army on the move.
They reached the farther side of the Place at length, and stood for some time watching order grow out of the confusion. Regiments were forming one after the other, and marching down the Rue de Namur towards the Namur Gate. The steady tramp of boots made an undercurrent of sound audible through the shrill blare of the trumpets and the ceaseless beat of the drums. Some of the men sang; some whistled; the riflemen began to form up, and a voice from their ranks shouted: ‘The first in the field and the last out of it: the bloody, Fighting Ninety-fifth!’ A roar went up; hundreds of voices chanted the slogan. Indifferent-eyed Flemish women, driving market-carts full of vegetables into Brussels from the neighbouring countryside, stared incuriously; an order rang out; another regiment moved forward.
Once Worth bent over Judith, asking: ‘Are you not tired? Shall we go home?’
She shook her head.