‘Damn,’ Fox said mildly, ‘and there were some fine canvases there! A Fragonard among others.’
Sharpe neither knew nor cared what a Fragonard might be, but hurried down the drive to recover the handcart that would hide the rifles and muskets. ‘You’re fit enough to walk?’ he asked Fox.
‘Fit as a fiddle! A bit bruised, and a little too much brandy, perhaps, but I can walk.’
Harper went to open the gate and a shot sounded behind them, the ball striking one of the gate’s iron bars. ‘Buggers don’t give up,’ Sharpe grumbled, and began reloading his rifle. ‘Riflemen!’ he called. ‘See them off.’
What small moon there was had vanished behind cloud, but Sharpe could see figures on the big house’s forecourt. Men were coming down the slope, evidently eager to stop their escape, and musket flames flashed from the house’s upper windows. The balls were mostly flying high, but some ripped through the vines. ‘How many of the buggers are there?’
‘I counted eleven men in the cellar,’ Fox answered.
Sharpe rested the rifle on the handcart, waited, then saw a movement among the vines to the right. He aimed, fired, the rifle’s muzzle flash sudden and bright. He doubted he had hit his man, but the rifle fire would distract and delay the attackers. ‘Keep firing!’
‘Gate’s open!’ Harper called.
‘Time to withdraw, boys,’ Sharpe said. He rammed a bullet down the barrel and fired up the drive, hearing his ball ricochet from the stones. A musket ball, fired in return, thumped into the handcart as Sharpe helped drag it out to the road. They turned right. Folk peered from windows, curious about the sudden noise, but the pursuers had given up their chase. Sharpe pulled on the long black coat to cover his uniform and tossed the rifle onto the handcart.
‘They were going to kill you,’ he said to Fox.
‘Oh, I doubt that! Madame Delaunay assured me otherwise.’
‘Why did you go without me?’ Sharpe demanded angrily.
‘I admit it turned out to be unwise,’ Fox said, ‘but it seemed worth the risk. I was told General Delaunay had died, so I thought I’d question the widow. To be honest, Sharpe, I thought she might be a bit low on cash, and offered to buy her portraits. You saw the one above the mantel? I swear it’s by Jacques-Louis David.’
‘And she recognised you,’ Sharpe guessed, ‘because members of la Fraternité all know what you look like.’
‘She accused me of being a spy!’ Fox protested.
‘And questioned you.’
‘A rather unpleasant Sergeant questioned me.’
‘And you revealed my name.’
‘I did. Always best to give the scoundrels something, Colonel. It keeps the thumbscrews at bay.’
‘They tortured you?’
‘Good Lord, no! They hit me a few times, and when that didn’t work they plied me with brandy. Rather good brandy too. They thought it would loosen my tongue, but I only told them about the paintings in the Musée Napoléon. I said nothing of la Fraternité.’
‘I did,’ Sharpe said.
Fox stopped abruptly. ‘Good God, man, you did what?’
‘I asked her,’ Sharpe said calmly. ‘Besides, Collignon knew what you were after, and he would have told them.’
‘So what did the old woman say?’
‘That it was medieval claptrap. Just a group of soldiers sworn to protect the Emperor and each other on the battlefield.’
‘Ha! Didn’t work, did it?’ Fox said. ‘Delaunay died.’
‘Maybe,’ Sharpe said.
‘You think she lied about that?’
‘For a widow,’ Sharpe said, ‘she seemed to be enjoying herself too much.’
‘She’s a tough old bird,’ Fox said, then paused. ‘She’s English, of course.’
‘So she told me.’
‘Father was a naval Captain, rather a good one. He captured a French troop ship in the American war and brought one of the captives home, and young Florence fell for him. Good God, perhaps you’re right? The General is alive?’
‘The other fellow too,’ Sharpe said, ‘Lanier? Or maybe Collignon just fed you two dead men’s names.’ Fox did not answer, just looked disappointed. ‘We should have searched the house,’ Sharpe said ruefully.
‘Too many infantry there,’ Fox said. ‘We were damned lucky to get out!’
‘You only saw eleven?’
‘There could be more,’ Fox said vaguely, ‘it’s a damned big house.’
‘To protect a vineyard?’
‘And there’s a tunnel, Sharpe.’
‘A tunnel?’
‘The walls of Paris have dozens of tunnels, Sharpe. Smugglers’ tunnels. The duty on wine is prohibitive, so smugglers bring the wine in through tunnels, more than a hundred of them, I’m told. And I heard them talking about a tunnel. That old woman is cheating her government by smuggling wine, and she has soldiers to protect her. They’re up to no good, Sharpe!’ Fox announced this in a loud voice, startling some late-night pedestrians leaving the cafés on the Rue de Saint-Antoine. ‘No good at all! Good Lord, man, yes! Suppose the old boy is alive! How better to hide him than pretend he’s dead? Where the hell are we going?’
‘Home,’ Sharpe said.
It was well past midnight when they reached the H?tel Mauberges, but Vignot was still awake, sitting on the front porch with one of the evicted deserters’ muskets over his knees. ‘They didn’t try to come back, Colonel,’ he told Sharpe.
‘They won’t,’ Sharpe said, ‘and we’ll sleep in the stables.’
‘If there’s a proper bed?’ Fox suggested.
‘Straw,’ Sharpe insisted, ‘in the stables.’
‘This is not a good idea, Sharpe,’ Fox hissed as they circled the house.
‘And why not?’
‘The Countess Mauberges is a supporter of the Emperor! We’re like mice living in the cat’s house!’
‘There’ll be a lot of mice here soon,’ Sharpe suggested.
‘They can’t be far off,’ Fox said airily, ‘and the Frogs are considering surrender.’
‘They are?’
‘That’s what the old lady told me. She didn’t approve, of course. Called the politicians lily-livered scum.’
‘And what happens to the Emperor?’
‘Up against a wall, take aim, fire! I hope.’
Sharpe stood guard once the others had settled to sleep. He was tired, but did not want to inflict sentry duty on any of his men, who were just as weary. He walked the grounds of the H?tel Mauberges, seeing nothing except a cat prowling in some shrubbery. The Champs-élysées stretched off to his left and there were fires smouldering among the crude shelters. Vignot had said that French soldiers, bereft of orders or battalions, were camping there. He stared at the northern sky, hoping to spot the glow of an army’s campfires reflected from the clouds, but saw nothing.
Did la Fraternité really exist? He doubted it. The idea was too fanciful, yet there was something equally strange about the Delaunay vineyard. Why were soldiers there? General Delaunay had been a cavalry officer, yet his house was infested with infantry. ‘You should sleep,’ Harper’s voice startled him.
‘Morning, Pat.’
‘Go and sleep, sir. I’ll keep watch.’
‘We have to go back, Pat.’
‘Go back?’
‘To that damned vineyard.’
‘Later, sir. Get some sleep.’
‘Wake me when they brew some tea.’