‘It was my scar, Ducos.’ Sharpe touched his face. ‘You should get one.’
‘I stay clear of battles, Sharpe.’ The smile came and went. ‘I hate violence, unless it is necessary, and most battles are just brawls where nobodies make fleeting names for themselves. You haven’t asked me where she is.’
‘Would I get an answer?’
‘Of course. She has returned to France. I fear you won’t see her for a long time, Major, not till the war is over, perhaps.’
Sharpe thought of his wife, Teresa, and he thought of the guilt that he had felt when he had betrayed her, but he could not erase the blonde Frenchwoman, married to her ancient Spanish Marques, from his mind. He wanted to see her again, to see again a woman who matched a dream.
‘Ducos! You’re monopolizing Major Sharpe.’ Dubreton cut in between them.
‘I thought Sharpe the most interesting of your guests.’ Ducos did not bother to say ‘sir’.
Dubreton’s dislike of the Major was obvious. ‘You should talk to Sir Augustus, Ducos. He’s written a book so he must be fascinating.’ Dubreton’s scorn of Sir Augustus was equally evident.
Ducos did not move. ‘Sir Augustus Farthingdale? A functionary only. Large parts of his book were drawn from Major Chamberlin’s of the 24th.’ He sipped his punch and looked about the room. ‘You have officers of the Fusiliers, one man from the South Essex, and one Rifleman, excluding yourself, Major Sharpe. Let me see now. One full Battalion? The Fusiliers. One Company of the 60th, and your own Company. You were hoping to make us think you had more men?’ Sharpe smiled. ‘One Battalion of French infantry, one hundred and twenty Lancers, and one hundred and fifty Dragoons. And one functionary, Major. Yourself. We’re well matched.’
Dubreton laughed, Ducos scowled, and then the French Colonel took Sharpe’s elbow and led him away from the small man. ‘He is a functionary, but more dangerous than your Sir Augustus.’
Sharpe looked back at Ducos. ‘What is he?’
‘What he wills. He’s from Paris. He used to be one of Fouche’s right hand men.’
‘Fouche?’
‘How fortunate you are not to know the name.’ Dubreton took another glass of punch from a passing tray. ‘A policeman, Sharpe, working behind the scenes. He is periodically disgraced and loses the Emperor’s favour, but these men always come back.’ He jerked his head at Ducos. ‘Another fanatic, spying on his own side. For him today is not Christmas Day, it is the 5th of Nivose, year 20, and it does not matter to him that the Emperor abolished the Revolutionary Calendar. He burns with the passion.’Why did you bring him?’
‘What choice do I have? He decides where he will go, who he speaks to.’
Sharpe turned to look at Ducos. The small Major smiled at Sharpe, revealing teeth stained red by the punch.
Dubreton ordered more wine for Sharpe. ‘You leave tomorrow?’
‘You must ask Sir Augustus. He’s in command.’
‘Really?’ Dubreton smiled, then turned as a door opened. ‘Ah! The ladies!’
New introductions were made all round, introductions that seemed to last five minutes, and hand after hand was kissed, elaborate courtesies made, and then, with equal elaboration, Dubreton seated his guests. He himself had reserved a chair in the centre of the table, facing the door, and he steered Sir Augustus to a place beside him with exquisite grace. Ducos immediately took the chair on Farthingdale’s other side, and Sir Augustus looked in alarm for Josefina. Dubreton saw the look. ‘Now, now, Sir Augustus! We have talking to do, much talking, and your beautiful wife is ever with you, whereas we only have the pleasure of your company for such short time.’ He gestured with his hand to Josefina. ‘Can I persuade you to sit opposite your husband, Lady Farthingdale? I trust there is no draught from the door. It is well curtained, but perhaps Major Sharpe would consent to sit beside you to protect you from the winter?’
It had been neatly done. The French had Farthingdale where they wanted him. They planned to negotiate and were giving him no place to turn. Dubreton sat next to his own wife, rubbing salt into Sir Augustus’ wound, and Sharpe saw Sir Augustus looking painfully at Josefina. He wanted her close, he hated to see her away from him, and it seemed pathetic to Sharpe that a man should be so bereft because his whore was seven feet away.