‘The General has done me enough honour already.’ Verigny, in addition to providing this room and Sharpe’s food, had given Sharpe a new razor, a change of shirt, new stockings, and even a fine new tinder box; all to replace the articles stolen from Sharpe since he fell into Ducos’ hands.
Sharpe opened the paper, not understanding the French words, but seeing his own name, misspelt, on the top line. He looked at Montbrun. ‘Is my name to be submitted for exchange?’
They must have expected the question. An officer was rarely kept as a prisoner of war if he was captured close to the battlelines. Montbrun frowned. ‘We fear not, Major.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘You have, Afsieu, a certain notoriety?’ Montbrun smiled. ‘It would be foolish of us to release so formidable a soldier to wreak further damage on our cause.’
It was a pretty enough compliment, but not the answer Sharpe wanted. If he was not to be exchanged, then he faced a journey to the frontier, where he would be released on his parole to make his unescorted way across France. Verigny, speaking eagerly, explained that it would be his pleasure to provide Sharpe with the means to stay only in the best hotels, that he would, indeed, furnish him with introductions and the Major would be welcome to linger on his journey north to savour the summer delights of France. ‘Take the entirely summer, Major. You can drink, there are women, there are more drink!’ He demonstrated by finishing his glass. Already, Sharpe noted, Verigny was slurring his words.
There was yet more. Once at Verdun, the great northern fortress where officer prisoners were kept, Montbrun explained that the General would ensure that Sharpe had money to take rooms in the town, servants, and membership of all the best clubs organized by the captured British officers. Even, he said, the Literary and Philosophical Association, which was neither literary nor philosophical, but provided the wealthiest British captives with the discreet pleasures a man needed.
Sharpe thanked him.
Montbrun reached into his pouch and produced a quill and ink bottle. He pushed them to Sharpe. ‘You will sign, Major?’
‘When will I be leaving Burgos?’ Sharpe had not touched the quill.
‘Tomorrow, Major. The General is with the rearguard. You may travel by horseback or, if your wounds are troublesome, in the Marquesa’s coach. We will leave, it is expected, at nine o’clock.’
Sharpe looked at Helene and knew the temptation to yield now, to sign the paper, and share the journey with her.
She smiled. ‘Do, Richard.’ She shrugged. ‘We’re not going to let you go, you do know that.’
Verigny belched, Montbrun frowned. Sharpe smiled. ‘I may have to escape then.’
That shocked them. There was a second’s silence, then Verigny exploded into words, pleading words. If there was no parole then they would be forced to heap indignities upon a brave man who had suffered enough indignities at the hands of Frenchmen who were a disgrace to their country, their Emperor and their sacred flag. It was unthinkable that he should be marched as a common criminal to prison. Verigny would not hear of it! He must sign!
Yet if he signed he could not attempt an escape.
He looked at the paper again. ‘I will give my decision in the morning. Say at eight o’clock?’
It was the best they could do. They tried to persuade him, but he would not change his mind. ‘In the morning. Eight o’clock.’
Two more bottles were opened. Sharpe’s head was already feeling the effects of the first six, but he let Montbrun pour him more wine. They toasted Helene, they toasted her chances of recovering her wagons. It seemed, she said, that they had been sent to Vitoria already, but that General Verigny was confident that he would take them back for her. More wine was poured. Major Montbrun, his plump face gleaming with sweat, asked Sharpe’s permission to toast the Emperor which, the permission having been graciously given, they duly did. Out of courtesy to their guest they proposed the health of King George III, and then various other Kings including Arthur, Alfred, Charlemagne, Louis I to Louis XIV inclusive, Caesar Augustus, Old King Cole, the King of the Castle, Nebuchadnezzar, Wilfred the Hairy, and finishing with Tig-lath Pileser III, whose name they could not by then pronounce, but who had the honour to take the first of the brandy.
General Verigny was asleep. He had slept ever since he had proposed the health of Richard the Lionheart.
‘He was a mignon,’ Montbrun had said, then blushed because he had said it. Now, as the sun was setting and casting long shadows on the conical piles of shells in the castle courtyard, Montbrun decided they must leave. ‘You will give us your decision in the morning, Major?’ His words came out slowly. He tapped the parole.
‘In the morning.’
‘Good. I shall leave it with you, if I may.’ He stood, and his eyes showed alarm at the effects of the wine on his balance. ‘Good gracious!’
Two lancers were fetched to carry the General downstairs, and one to assist Montbrun. La Marquesa, who gave her hand to Sharpe to be kissed, seemed unaffected by the drink. There were still six untouched bottles on the table. She smiled at him. ‘Don’t escape, Richard.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Poor, foolish Richard.’ She touched his cheek and followed the two officers to the stairs.
Sharpe sat. He listened to the General’s feet drag on the stairs, listened to the door open and close, heard the carriage creak, then clatter away. He stared at the parole, at the odd French words, and felt the temptation to share Helene’s coach.
The door opened.
She smiled ‘I’ve told them to come back for me in three hours.’ She knocked on the door and Sharpe heard the bolt slide across outside.
She stared at him, her head on one side, then she walked to the bed, sat, and lifted one foot to untie the half boots she wore under her dress. ‘Come to bed, Richard, for Christ’s sake come to bed.’
He took a champagne bottle with him and she laughed. ‘You see how good it is to be a prisoner of France?’
He smiled and lifted his bandaged right hand. ‘You’ll have to undress me.’
‘I intend to, Richard. Come here.’
He went. He saw the white lace go, the dress fall, and she was naked in the red ‘sunlight. Her hands reached for his jacket, then pulled him down to the bed and to her arms.
She smoked a cigar. She lay on her back and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. ‘I practised those for months.’
‘You’re very good.’
‘At blowing smoke rings too.’ She giggled. ‘You’re not very drunk.’
‘Nor are you.’ He was dribbling champagne into her navel and sipping it. ‘Can you feel the bubbles?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
She said nothing for a few seconds, then, in a suddenly changed voice that made him stop his game to look at her, she told him that Major Ducos had made her sign the letter that had provoked the duel.
Sharpe stared into the grey eyes. ‘I know.’
‘Come here.’ She gestured at the pillow beside her, and when he was there she pulled the sheet over them both and hooked a leg over his. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘No.’
‘Then listen.’
She talked. She spoke of a treaty that was being made between the imprisoned Spanish king and the Emperor Napoleon. She spoke of Pierre Ducos’ part in the making of the treaty, and she described the terms of the treaty and how, if it was signed, it would force the British from Spain. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes. But what…’
‘… Has it got to do with that letter?’ She finished his question for him, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She threw her cigar onto the floor and put her hand on his waist. ‘I just don’t know, except that I think the Inquisitor must be helping Ducos, and I’m guessing that my money is the price of that help.’
He stared into her lustrous, beautiful face and he tried to sense whether this was the truth. He could not tell.
