The assembled officers looked curiously at the Englishman. Few had seen a captured British officer before, and none had seen one of the feared Riflemen as a prisoner. If they caught his eye, they smiled. They offered him the best food on the table, one poured him wine, another brandy, and they urged him to drink with them.
Verigny sat close to La Marquesa. She fed him scraps with her fork. They touched each other, laughed privately, and seemed to fill the room with their gaiety. At one point there was a roar of laughter and the General smiled at Sharpe. `I tell her she should be marrying me. She says she might become a nun instead, yes?’ Sharpe smiled politely. Verigny asked whether Sharpe thought La Marquesa would make a good nun, and Sharpe said that the nunnery would be a fortunate place.
Verigny laughed. `But what waste, Major, yes?’ He gestured at her. `I ride here to rescue her. I insist they make me come here, I demand it! You think she deserves marriage to me as a return, yes?’
Sharpe smiled, but inside he felt sick. He had been a prisoner before, back in the Indian wars, and then too he had been captured by lancers. He would remember to his last day the face of the Indian leaning towards him, teeth gritted as he drove the blade into Sharpe’s waist to pin him to the tree. Now he had been captured again, and he could see small hope of freedom.
He listened to the loud laughter of the officers, saw their eyes fastened on La Marquesa, watched her coquettish gestures as she played to her audience. She pouted at him once, raising more laughter, and he hid his despair beneath a wan smile.
General Verigny had said that Sharpe could be exchanged, but Sharpe knew it would not happen. Even if the British had a captive French Major to exchange, they would not recognise the name Vaughn on the French proposal. Every few weeks the two sides exchanged lists of prisoners, but Wellington’s headquarters would query Major Vaughn. The French would presume that the British did not want `Vaughn’ back-and he would be sent to the fortress town of Verdun where officer prisoners were kept.
Nor could Sharpe reveal his real name. To do that would be to prompt a dozen questions each nastier than the last. He must stay Vaughn, and as Vaughn he would go to Verdun, and as Vaughn he would sit out the war, rotting behind Verdun’s walls, wondering what kind of bleak future peace would bring.
Or he could escape, yet not till Verigny had safely escorted him from these mountains with their vengeful Partisans. Even as he thought it, Verigny turned and smiled at him. `Helene she tells me you break into the convent, yes?’
`Yes.’
`You are brave man, Major Vaughn!’ Verigny lifted a glass to him. `I owe you my thank you.’
Sharpe shrugged. `You can let me go, sir.’
Verigny laughed, then translated the exchange into French to provoke more friendly laughter from his officers. He shook his head. `I cannot let you go, Major Vaughn, but you do not cause yourself to worry, no? You will be changed at Burgos.’
Sharpe smiled. `I hope so, sir.’
`You hope! It is certain! But however! You must give me your parole not to escape before then, yes?’
Sharpe hesitated. By giving his parole he promised to make no effort to escape. He would keep his sword, he would be free to ride with the Lancers without guard, and he would be treated with the respect due to his rank. If he did not give it, then he would be able to make an attempt to escape, but he knew that he would be well guarded. He would be disarmed, he would be locked up at night, and if there was nowhere to lock him he could even be tied to his guard.
Verigny shrugged. `Well?’
`I cannot give you my parole, sir.’
Verigny frowned. The table was silent. The General shrugged. `You are a brave man, Major, I do not want to treat you bad.’
`I cannot accept, sir.’