the devil of it. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, you know; you can’t have a victory that counts without a butcher’s bill. And this is a noble victory, by God! I doubt I have ever been so happy as when I saw Shannon bringing in her prize; certainly I have never cheered so loud or long in all my days. I am as hoarse as a corn-crake still.’
The general happiness that filled the naval base was even more evident at the Commissioner’s splendid dinner; it flowed into Jack once again as he sat there after the cloth was drawn, going over every move in that memorable action, showing his enraptured fellow-sailors each sail set, each piece of rigging carried away, each movement of the two frigates, with the help of a pair of models brought up from the dockyard.
It was equally apparent at the port-admiral’s, with a gay and sprightly Colpoys who sang as he went up the stairs, and a cheerful, talkative mistress of the house, intensely pleased with life in spite of the anxieties of the great ball she was to give at such short notice. The universal lightness of heart had infected Diana too – few women loved a ball more than she – and she greeted Stephen most affectionately, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘I am so glad you are come,’ she said. ‘Now I can give you your card instead of sending it. I have been helping Lady Harriet write them since breakfast time. Half the Navy List, and countless soldiers.’
‘My card?’ said Stephen, holding it at a distance, with a suspicious look.
‘Your card for the ball, my dear. The ball, you know: a vast great party where people dance. You can dance, Stephen, can you not?’
‘After my own fashion. The last time I danced was at Melbury Lodge, during the peace. You were good enough to stand up with me, and we walked through a minuet without disgrace. I hope you will be so kind again.’
‘Alas, Stephen, I cannot come. I have nothing to wear. But I shall watch from the gallery; you shall bring me an ice from time to time, and we can abuse the dancers.’
‘Did you bring nothing in your little trunk?’
‘Oh, there was no time to choose, and I did not have my wits about me. Apart from jewels, I just threw in some shifts and stockings – whatever came to hand. And anyhow, I could not have told that I should be invited to a ball.’
‘There are mantua-makers in Halifax, Villiers.’
‘Halifax mantua-makers,’ said Diana, laughing heartily – the first time he had heard her laugh since they met in America; it moved his heart strangely. ‘No. In this desert there would be only one hope. Lady Harriet has a very clever Frenchwoman who smuggles things from Paris: she brought a whole mass this morning, and among them there was a blue lutestring we both admired. Lady Harriet could not wear it, of course; it has sleeves to here and precious little back or front and as she said herself, she would look like a monument. She chose a wicked merde d’oie muslin, but at least it covers her entirely, and they are letting it out for her at this minute. I should have bought the blue, but Madame Chose asks the earth, and I must make the five cents I brought with me last and last. Do you know, my dear, I positively darned a pair of stockings last night. If this were London or Paris or even Philadelphia I should sell a couple of pearls: the rope is unstrung. But there is nothing but pinchbeck and filigree in this desert. The one thing I really do understand is jewels, and it would be desperate nonsense to sell any of them in Halifax. The Nawab’s pearls in Halifax! Can you conceive such a thing?’
In any other woman her words would have been a flat demand, and a tolerably coarse one at that; with Diana this was not the case. She had, and as long as Stephen had known her she always had had, a perfectly direct way of talking to him, with no reserve, nothing devious about it, as though they were people of the same kind or even in a way confederates; and she was genuinely surprised when he said, ‘We are in funds. I drew upon London, and you must certainly have your lutestring gown. Let us send for it at once.’
It came; it was approved; and Madame Chose retired with her swingeing price. Diana held the dress in front of her, peering intently into the looking-glass over the fire. She was not in looks, but the frank delight in a new dress, almost entirely unaffected by years of an unusually wealthy life, gave her a fine animation. Her eyes narrowed, and she frowned. ‘The top is sadly uninspired,’ she said, nodding at the mirror. ‘It was meant to be set off with something: pearls, I dare say. I shall wear my diamonds.’
Stephen looked down. The diamonds, a rivière of diamonds with an astonishing pale-blue pendant stone in the middle, had been given to Diana by Johnson in their early days: by some mental process of her own she had entirely dissociated them from their source; Stephen had not. His pain was not the piercing thrust of jealousy but rather a certain grief at hearing her say something crass. He had always taken it for granted that whatever Diana might actually do, her tact was infallible and that she could not, without intending it, say anything that would give offence. Perhaps he had been mistaken: or perhaps this long stay in America, living only among the loose, expensive set of Johnson’s friends, together with her distress, had coarsened her for the time, just as it had given her a hint of a colonial accent and a taste for bourbon and tobacco … a refuge in coarseness, as it were. But then again, he reflected, Johnson had certainly taken the diamonds back, and Diana, recovering them and escaping with them at great risk, might well feel that she had thereby established an independent title to the jewels, much as one pirate overcoming another pirate would appropriate his goods with a tranquil mind, whatever their provenance. He looked up, and said, ‘Might they not look a little excessive in what is, after all, a provincial gathering?’
‘Not at all, Maturin,’ said she. ‘There are several women of fashion here, apart from the rest. Many of the soldiers’ wives have followed them – I saw at least half a dozen names I knew when I was addressing the cards – and there are some among the sailors: Mrs Wodehouse, for example, and Charlotte Leveson-Gower, and Lady Harriet herself. She may be no Aphrodite, but she has emeralds as big as soup-plates and she is determined to wear ’em all, together with everything else her bosom can contain; which is not inconsiderable.’
The first stab past, Stephen did not care one way or another: in any case, Diana no doubt understood these things better than he did; she had kept very good or at least very fashionable company in London and India. He felt in his pocket and brought out some papers: the first was not the one he was looking for, but he smiled when he saw it and instead of putting it back he said, ‘This came for me this morning, and whimsically enough I had been dreaming of Paris not half an hour before.’ He passed the letter over.
‘They ask you to address the Institut de France – Lord, Stephen, I had no idea you were such a great man. They want you to tell them about the extinct avifauna of Rodriguez. What is an avifauna?’
‘Birds.’
‘What a pity you cannot go. You would have enjoyed it so. I suppose they took you for a neutral, or an American.’
‘Yet perhaps I shall go too. As you see, the date is well ahead, and if we can take a reasonably expeditious vessel, I believe I shall go. This is their second invitation, and the last time I regretted not being there extremely. It is perhaps the most flattering honour I have received, and I should meet some of the most interesting men in Europe. The Cuviers are sure to be there, and I have some remarks on the antarctic cetaceans that will amaze Frédéric.’
‘But how can you possibly go? How can you possibly go to Paris in the middle of a war?’
‘Oh, as for that, with the proper consent and safe-conducts, there is no difficulty. Natural philosophy does not regard this war, or any other, with very close attention, and interchange is quite usual. Humphry Davy went and addressed them on his chloride of nitrogen, for example; and he was much caressed. But that is not what I meant to talk about.’ He took up the second cover and laid it on the table before her, saying with some embarrassment, ‘This is for pins.’
‘Pins, Stephen?’ cried she, astonished.
‘I have always understood that women required a reasonable sum for pins.’
‘Stephen,’ – laughing with pleasure – ‘you are blushing. Upon my word and honour, you are