‘And I think we must find la Fraternité,’ Sharpe offered sourly.
‘It doesn’t exist, Sharpe! That old bitch was right, it was medieval claptrap! And with her husband gone? Forget it.’
‘Colonel Lanier lives. I saw him.’
‘Bugger Lanier, from what I heard he’s a mere adventurer.’
‘So probably the right man for medieval claptrap.’
‘Where did you see him?’
‘At the Delaunay vineyard.’
‘Then your job, Sharpe, is to make sure he stays there. Can’t do any damage with a bullet in his filthy heart, can he? I want him dead, then I can get on with my proper job.’
‘Listing paintings?’
Fox sneered at that. ‘Saving paintings, Sharpe. That may sound trivial to you, but we have an agreement with our allies to restore the stolen works, and that’s important!’
‘More important than la Fraternité?’ Sharpe asked harshly.
‘Bugger la Fraternité! A piece of romantic balderdash, Sharpe, and with Delaunay dead the balderdash died too.’
‘Except for Lanier.’
Fox sighed with exasperation. ‘Lanier is a brute. But yes, maybe you’re right, maybe he’s a danger, but if it makes you feel safer, kill the man. You’re good at that.’
‘Is that an order?’
‘As if from the Duke himself. Who must be here soon! Maybe tomorrow? You know the craven little buggers are surrendering?’
‘They are?’
‘It was settled this morning. Our troops will occupy Paris, and all French forces are ordered to scuttle off to the far side of the Loire. Bonaparte has abdicated and given the throne to his four-year-old son. Shouldn’t have much trouble eviscerating that little bastard, should we? But it’s all flim-flam.’
‘Flim-flam?’
‘Pure show, Sharpe, circus tricks. No one takes Bonaparte’s wishes seriously. They’ve lost and they damn well know it. The four-year-old can concentrate on his toilet training, and Fat Louis will be King again, peace is restored and we can all go back to sleep.’
‘Where is Bonaparte?’
‘Skulking somewhere. Licking his wounds and hoping he isn’t put against a wall and filleted. The provisional government want no part of him. Except, perhaps, his head!’ Fox thought this a great joke and laughed heartily.
‘So who’s in charge?’ Sharpe asked when the laughter subsided.
‘This is France, Sharpe, no one is in charge. They’re like headless chickens, a lot of clucking, feathers everywhere, and broken eggs. Don’t concern yourself! Just make sure none of the bastards takes a shot at the Duke.’
Fox had expected the Duke to march the British army into Paris the next day, but it was three days before Sharpe heard a band playing and recognised the tune as the ‘Female Drummer’; a song celebrating a girl who had marched with the British army at the very beginning of the wars. ‘That must be our boys,’ Harper said.
‘Unless the Frogs use that tune.’
‘Let’s see!’
They walked to the gate of the house where, to Sharpe’s pleasure, a battalion of British infantry was marching westwards. Horse artillery followed, then a long column of cavalry on tired horses. More infantry came behind. Sharpe, emboldened by the music, wore his green jacket and was greeted by a company of Riflemen who saw him at the road’s edge and gave him a cheer. The infantry was marching with Colours flying, the flags protected by Sergeants carrying halberds.
‘It’s a grand sight,’ Harper said.
‘It is?’
‘From Portugal to the heart of France, sir. We deserve this.’
‘But you wouldn’t celebrate them in Dublin.’
‘Christ, no.’ Harper grinned. ‘Unless they were marching out.’
A crowd of Parisians watched the soldiers, their faces dull, even sad. Some looked askance at Sharpe and Harper, doubtless wondering why they were not marching with the rest of the British. A Provost must have thought the same thing because he marched to confront them. ‘You men don’t know the Duke’s orders?’ he demanded brusquely.
‘What orders would they be, Sergeant?’ Sharpe asked mildly.
‘No one, but no one, is to leave the line of march on risk of punishment.’
‘And you wish to punish us, Sergeant?’
The Sergeant looked Sharpe up and down, seeing a tattered Rifleman’s jacket, French cavalry overalls, and scarred boots. Sharpe was not wearing his officer’s sash, though he did have the heavy cavalry sword at his side. ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’ the Provost Sergeant demanded.
‘The Duke, Sergeant.’
‘Don’t be funny with me! What’s your name? Both of you.’
‘I’m Patrick Harper, Sergeant,’ Harper said happily.
‘A bog Irishman?’
‘I crawled out of the bog over twenty years ago. And your name?’
‘I’m a Provost, that’s all you need to know.’
‘I think not,’ Harper said. ‘I’m a Regimental Sergeant Major and he’s Lieutenant-Colonel Sharpe, and the only man we answer to is the Duke of Wellington. Maybe we should flog you?’
‘What is your name, Sergeant?’ Sharpe demanded.
‘Cullen, sir.’ He stepped back, looking frightened.
‘Back to your duty, Sergeant,’ Sharpe said quietly.
‘Sir!’ Cullen stood briefly to attention and then happily fell in with a passing battalion.
‘Poor wee man,’ Harper said.
‘This might be our lads.’ Sharpe was looking to his right and could see a battalion approaching with yellow facings on their red jackets.
‘It is!’ Harper said happily. ‘I can see Pigface Malone! Bugger never could keep step.’
Major Morris, mounted on a black horse, led the battalion. He pretended not to see Sharpe, but Captain Jefferson, leading the Grenadier Company immediately behind Morris, made sure the pretence failed. ‘Grenadier Company!’ he called. ‘Eyes left!’ Jefferson saluted with his sword and Morris turned, annoyed.
‘Stop that noise, now!’ he snarled as the Grenadiers gave a cheer.
‘Good morning, Major,’ Sharpe called, startling Morris, who grimaced and spurred his horse on without answering. The cheering, Sharpe noted, did not subside.
One by one Sharpe’s companies marched past, all saluting him and all cheering. Sharpe waited for Harry Price to appear and fell in beside him. ‘How are things, Harry?’
‘Dire, sir. We’re the worst disciplined battalion in the history of the British army.’
‘Morris’s opinion?’
‘Frequently expressed, sir, and I’m the disgrace of the battalion.’
‘You are, Harry?’
‘Indolent, insolent and impudent, he told me.’
‘He got that right,’ Harper put in.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Price said cheerfully.
‘Any floggings, Harry?’
‘Two, not yet carried out, sir, both my men.’
‘Who?’ Sharpe felt a surge of anger, but tried to control it.
‘O’Neill and Flaherty, sir, accused of being asleep on sentry duty.’
‘Were they?’
‘They were probably dozing, sir, but Christ! We were exhausted, and they’d marched all day. And we hadn’t seen an enemy for days! Their real offence is being Irish. He hates the Irish.’
‘He hasn’t flogged them yet?’
‘Says it will wait till we’re in our cantonment here, sir.’
‘Which is where?’
‘The Bois de Boulogne, sir, wherever that is.’
‘Not far off,’ Sharpe said, ‘so tomorrow, probably?’