‘My husband is dead!’ She almost spat the words. ‘Slaughtered by you English two Sundays ago!’
So General Delaunay had been at Waterloo? Why had Fox not known that? Or Collignon for that matter? The man’s widow was now holding the pistol higher, aiming it at Sharpe’s face, and he was watching it like a hawk. He had handled French cavalry pistols, and remembered how stiff the action had always been, which meant that Madame Delaunay would need a deal of strength to pull the trigger. She was a slight woman and he wondered if he would see the effort and have time to throw himself sideways. He doubted it, but on the other hand the pistol was heavy and was wavering slightly as she aimed it, and even as he watched she lowered the gun so it rested on her knees. ‘I am truly sorry, madame,’ Sharpe said. ‘The Général was a Cuirassier?’
‘He was.’
‘They were brave men,’ Sharpe said, remembering the heavy horsemen in their breastplates and helmets charging the British squares again and again, only to be cut down by canister and relentless musketry. The breastplates had looked good, but a musket bullet spat a hole in them easily.
‘Of course they were brave.’ She half raised the pistol, immediately pointing its huge dark muzzle at Sharpe’s chest again. ‘His aide brought this from the battlefield. This, his sword, and his Légion d’honneur.’ She let the pistol rest again. ‘And why did you wish to see my husband?’
‘To question him, madame.’
She snorted. ‘He would have answered you nothing! He was a patriot.’
‘Which is why I wished to speak with him.’
‘Explain yourself,’ she demanded peremptorily.
Sharpe thought for a few seconds. His search for la Fraternité seemed hopeless if General Delaunay was dead, and he doubted any mention of Alan Fox would prompt a helpful reply. ‘The Duke of Wellington, madame, is concerned that Paris does not become a battleground.’
‘Why would he care?’
‘I believe he has a fondness for the city, madame.’
‘I met him when he was ambassador here a year ago, a charming enough man.’ The compliment was grudging.
‘And he wishes to know whether the French forces in the city will yield peaceably. He has no wish to unleash artillery in the streets.’
‘So you were sent to spy, Colonel?’
‘Spies do not wear their country’s uniform, madame,’ Sharpe said, plucking at his green jacket.
‘What uniform is that?’
‘The Rifles, madame.’
‘It’s ragged,’ she said disapprovingly, then frowned. ‘Rifles? Is that a rifle?’
The rifle was leaning close to Sharpe on the sofa. He moved a hand towards it and she jerked the pistol up. ‘Do not touch it, Colonel.’ She waited till his hand had gone back to his lap. ‘Our army does not use rifles, is that right?’
‘They don’t, madame. It’s said the Emperor disapproves.’
‘My husband did too. We did try them years ago, and Charles said they took too long to reload. Yet he much disliked facing Riflemen.’
‘Good to know, madame,’ Sharpe said, earning a frown.
‘Stay where you are, Colonel,’ Madame Delaunay said, standing. She was keeping the pistol aimed at his chest again as she moved towards him. She came within two paces, stopped, and reached out with her left hand to take the rifle’s barrel. She lifted it, evidently surprised by its weight, and shuffled backwards to her chair. Sharpe did not move. Rather awkwardly she laid the rifle across her knees, still keeping the pistol pointed towards Sharpe. ‘Is it loaded?’
‘It is, madame, but not cocked.’
‘My husband said they were accurate.’
‘He was right, madame.’
‘Maybe I should find out.’ She laid the pistol on the sofa’s arm and lifted the rifle, pointing it towards Sharpe. ‘So you are here, Colonel, to discover whether there will be resistance to your army inside Paris?’
‘I pray not, madame.’
‘Or did you come in an attempt to rescue your compatriot?’
‘My compatriot?’
‘Mister Fox,’ she spat the name.
‘Do you have him, madame?’
‘He says you’re a nuisance, Colonel.’
The rifle was wavering, its weight too much for Madame Delaunay’s thin arms. ‘My task, madame, was to keep Mister Fox alive.’
‘To do what?’ she demanded.
Sharpe hesitated, but decided that the story of the Musée Napoléon’s stolen paintings was harmless enough. ‘His job is to recover the stolen paintings in the Musée Napoléon,’ he said.
‘They are not stolen,’ the widow snapped, ‘they belong to humanity! And Paris is the best place for such treasures.’
‘The Italians and Dutch might disagree, madame.’
‘Lesser races, Colonel Sharpe. Paris is the centre of Europe, and Europe the repository of civilisation.’
‘Nevertheless, madame, Mister Fox would only restore those treasures to their rightful owners.’
‘And your job is to keep him alive?’
‘Indeed so, madame.’
‘It seems you’ve failed.’
‘He’s dead? I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘He lives, Colonel.’ She paused to cock the rifle, needing all her strength to haul back the doghead. Sharpe was tempted to rush her while she grimaced at the effort, but stayed resolutely still. He did not believe she would kill him, not while he still had answers to her questions.
The doghead clicked into place and she aimed the rifle again, the brass buttplate against her right shoulder. ‘The rifle kicks, madame,’ Sharpe said, ‘I’d advise caution.’
‘You are impertinent, Colonel. I have used guns since I was a child.’
‘But not a rifle?’
‘There is a first time for everything, Colonel,’ she said. She was aiming the rifle at Sharpe’s chest, though the weight of the gun was causing the barrel to waver. Then, quite suddenly, she raised the barrel, sighted, and pulled the trigger.
The gun fired, the noise huge in the room, the smoke spewing out to fill the parlour with its stink as the bullet seared over Sharpe’s head to vanish through the open window. Madame Delaunay cried aloud in pain, her shoulder either broken or badly bruised by the rifle’s mule-like kick. Sharpe had seized a cushion, which he threw at her and she dropped the rifle and raised her left hand to fend off the missile, which gave Sharpe more than enough time to stand, cross the room, and pick up the horse pistol. ‘I did warn you, madame,’ he said, standing back from her.
‘You will not dare shoot me,’ she said, her voice sounding pained.
‘Where is Mister Fox?’ Sharpe asked.
She gasped, not in pain, but because a flurry of shots sounded outside the house and Sharpe realised Harper had taken the rifle shot as his expected signal. ‘You are a fool, Colonel,’ Madame Delaunay said.
‘I’m the fool with the gun, madame. Where is he?’
There was a stampede of footsteps beyond the parlour door, which was thrown open to reveal the officer who had supposedly gone to inspect the sentries. He stopped abruptly when Sharpe swung the pistol towards him. ‘Madame!’ the man said.
Madame Delaunay kicked Sharpe’s leg, but so feebly he hardly registered the blow. ‘Come in,’ Sharpe told the officer, ‘and sit next to Madame Delaunay.’