‘Gaelic,’ Harper said angrily.
A burst of laughter sounded from the table, and Sharpe saw that the tall man was interpreting his words for the benefit of his companions. He caught one word of the translation, tra?tre. ‘Traitor?’ he asked quietly.
‘The bastard is saying I’m a traitor to Ireland,’ Harper growled, ‘that any true Irishman should be fighting the British.’
The tall man had plainly overheard Harper’s accent and could see that his words had infuriated the big man in his Rifleman’s jacket. ‘Calm down, Pat,’ Sharpe said.
‘Oh, I’m calm, sir.’
‘A fair number of Irish rebels are in France,’ Fox said.
‘You’d think they’d want to be a long way from our army,’ Sharpe suggested.
‘I doubt the Duke cares about them,’ Fox said, then turned to look at the neighbouring table where the tall man was again speaking too loudly. Most of the restaurant had gone silent, aware of the small drama, and ready to be entertained.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Harper swore. He pushed his chair back.
Sharpe put a restraining hand on Harper’s arm. ‘I’ll shut him up, Pat.’
‘My battle, sir,’ Harper retorted. He stood, and the tall man, maybe surprised by his victim’s sheer size, fell silent.
Harper crossed to the table and stood over the tall man. ‘Hunger, you bastard,’ he growled, ‘drove me to this army, and you’re spoiling my meal.’
The man appeared to be about to answer, but Harper leaned down and seized his head. He held the man’s skull with a massive left hand and pulled his jaw wide open with his right. He tipped the man’s head back, then spat into his open mouth. ‘One more word,’ he added, ‘and I’ll pull your tongue out.’ He closed the man’s mouth and came back to the table, where he sat, looking pleased with himself. ‘The trouble is,’ he spoke quietly, ‘that he’s right. We should be fighting against the British.’
‘Pat …’ Sharpe began, though he was uncertain of what he could say to console the Irishman.
‘So it’s hunger that drives you?’ Fox intervened.
‘Have you ever been hungry?’ Harper retorted. ‘Tried to live on a tenant farm with a bastard landlord and too many children to feed?’ He paused to watch the table of six men leave. ‘It’s all right for him.’ He nodded at the tall man’s back. ‘He was no country lad out of Donegal. He had an education. He’s an officer. But for most of us? There’s no escape, sir.’ He was staring at Fox. ‘You starve or you serve. And we’re bloody good at serving.’
‘True,’ Sharpe said vehemently.
‘When the Duke’s in trouble,’ Harper said, ‘he calls on the Irish. He knows who fights hardest.’
‘I thought he called on Sharpe,’ Fox said lightly.
‘Mister Sharpe’s probably Irish, sir.’ Harper looked at Sharpe. ‘Just doesn’t know it.’
‘My father could have been Irish, I suppose,’ Sharpe said.
‘You didn’t know him, Sharpe?’ Fox asked.
‘Not sure my mother did either, Fox. But I hope she got paid for his pleasure.’
‘Ah.’ Fox looked embarrassed, and was saved by the arrival of the boudin.
Harper stood and looked through the window. ‘Monkeys are still there,’ he said cheerful again. ‘What does scimmie mean?’
‘Italian for monkeys,’ Fox said, ‘I suppose the fellow is Italian?’
‘Do they have monkeys in Italy?’ Harper asked.
‘They have beautiful women, Sergeant, fine painters, and good opera, but monkeys? Alas Italy is bereft of monkeys, so I suspect the fellow imported them.’
As they left the restaurant Sharpe gave Harper a handful of small coins. The Irishman looked surprised. ‘What’s that for, sir?’
‘There are two fellows collecting monkey-money, Pat.’ Sharpe nodded at the crowd still crammed about the great cage. ‘Drop those in their hats.’
‘Ah, you’re a grand man, sir, for an officer.’
‘Then join us in the Louvre. No more than an hour, Pat.’
Harper went happily to watch the monkeys, while Fox led Sharpe back to the huge museum. ‘What I must do, Sharpe,’ Fox said, ‘is note down which paintings we take, then your fellows can take them down. We can start tomorrow?’
‘We’ll have to close the museum.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘It’s necessary,’ Sharpe said. He suspected there would be a riot if Parisians knew that their plundered riches were being taken from the Louvre’s walls. ‘How many paintings are we talking about?’
‘That’s what I’ll determine this afternoon,’ Fox said, ‘but I suspect thousands.’
‘Thousands!’
‘Maybe two thousand paintings? And God alone knows about sculptures, but maybe another two thousand. I’m told the Prussians are sending a delegation to discover items stolen from the German states, and doubtless the Austrians and Russians will identify more when they arrive, but we’ll begin with everything stolen from Italy.’
They were standing beside the painting Fox had called the Transfiguration and Sharpe looked up at the vast canvas. ‘Do we send back the frames?’
‘Good question, Sharpe!’ Fox said enthusiastically. ‘I think with the big ones we can take them from their stretchers. We still have to get them down, though. Can you find the museum’s ladders?’
‘I need to alert my battalion.’
‘Find me ladders first, there’s a good fellow.’
Sharpe wandered the marble halls for a time, marvelling at the sheer grandeur of the museum with its pillared walls, sweeping stairways, and painted ceilings. He finally discovered a door that led into a drab passageway and from there a staircase that went into the cellars. There was no gilding down here, just gloomy stone walls dating from the time when the Louvre had been a fortress. The vast space was now crammed with storage rooms and workshops. He asked a man where he could find ladders. ‘There aren’t any,’ the man replied.
‘You must have ladders. How do you hang the pictures?’
‘We did have ladders! But the director ordered them turned to firewood.’
‘When?’
‘This morning.’ The man flung open a door and pointed towards a heap of splintered timbers. ‘There.’ He gave Sharpe a triumphant look. ‘Every ladder, firewood now.’
‘Why?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Because the director ordered it, monsieur.’ The man grinned, plainly happy that the perfidious British had been thwarted. Sharpe shrugged and left him, climbing back to the marble halls to discover Harper gazing enthralled at the Transfiguration. Fox was wandering the gallery and making notes.
‘No ladders,’ Sharpe told him. ‘The director had them broken up.’
‘Then find ladders, Sharpe!’ Fox said absently.
‘I’m bringing the battalion here first.’
‘The battalion? Why?’
‘To protect you while you make a list of the bloody pictures.’
‘Good thought, Sharpe. And ladders! Can’t do a damn thing without ladders.’
‘Ladders cost money,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I’m skint.’ He was far from skint, but he would be damned if he spent his own money. He held out a hand. ‘The Duke must have given you some cash?’
‘He did,’ Fox admitted, ‘for necessary purchases.’