They waited. The two men immediately closest to Sharpe faced him with bayonets. Sharpe closed his eyes. He swayed slightly with tiredness. His head throbbed.
The door opened.
Sharpe opened his eyes and understood.
Pierre Ducos stepped into the room. For a second Sharpe did not recognise the small, pock-skinned man with the round spectacles, and then the Christmas meeting in the Gateway of God rushed back to him. Major Pierre Ducos, who had been described to Sharpe as a dangerous man, a clever man, a man whose hands stank with the slime of politics, was responsible for this treatment, for the filthy cell, for what, Sharpe knew, was about to happen.
Ducos wrinkled his nose then stepped almost delicately behind the table and sat. A soldier followed him and put Sharpe’s sword on the table, then his telescope, then some papers. Not a word was said until the soldier had gone.
Ducos fussily aligned the edges of the papers before looking up at the English officer. `You slept well?’
Sharpe ignored the question. `I am an officer of His Britannic Majesty’s army, and I demand the treatment proper to my rank.’ His voice came out as a dry croak.
Ducos frowned. `You’re wasting my time.’ His voice was deep, as if it belonged to a much huger man.
`I am an officer in His Britannic.’
He stopped because the huge Sergeant, on a nod from Ducos, had turned and planted one vast fist into Sharpe’s stomach, doubling him over, driving the wind from him.
Ducos waited until Sharpe was upright again, until his breathing was normal, then smiled. `I believe, Mr Sharpe, that you are not an officer. By a Court-Martial decision, of which I have a record here,’ he tapped the papers, `you were dismissed the army. In brief you are a civilian, though masquerading as a Major Vaughn. Am I right?’
Sharpe said nothing. Ducos unhooked the spectacles from his ears, breathed on them, and began to polish their round lenses with a silk handkerchief he took from his sleeve. `I believe you are a spy, Mr Sharpe.’
`I am an officer.’
`Do stop being tedious. We have already ascertained that you were cashiered. You wear a uniform to which you are not entitled, carry a name not your own, and by your own admission to General Verigny you were trying to abduct a woman in the hope that she could provide information.’ He carefully hooked the wire spectacle frames onto his ears and smiled unpleasantly at Sharpe. `It sounds like spying to me. Did Wellington think that by faking your execution you would become invisible?’ He laughed at his jest. `I will admit, Mr Sharpe, that it fooled me. I could hardly credit it when I saw you in our courtyard!’ He smiled triumphantly, then picked up the top sheet of paper. `It seems from what that fool Verigny has told me that you rescued La Marquesa from the convent. Is that true?’
Sharpe said nothing. Ducos sighed. `I know you did, Mr Sharpe. It was inconvenient of you, to say the least. Why did you go to such lengths to rescue her?’
`I wanted to go to bed with her.’
Ducos leaned back. `You’re being tiresome and my time is too valuable to listen to your filth. I ask you again, why did you rescue her?’
Sharpe repeated the answer.
Ducos looked at the Sergeant and nodded.
The Sergeant turned stolidly, his face expressionless, glanced up and down Sharpe and then brought his right fist hard again at the Rifleman’s stomach. Sharpe moved from the blow, his own hand going for the Sergeant’s eyes, but a bayonet chopped down on his arm and the Sergeant’s left fist crashed into his face, banging his head back on the stone wall, then the right fist was in his belly, doubling him over, and suddenly the Sergeant, as woodenly as he had turned to Sharpe, turned away and slammed to attention.
Ducos was frowning. He watched Sharpe straighten up. Blood was coming from the Rifleman’s nose. Sharpe leaned on the wall and this time no one stopped him. The Frenchman shook his head. `I do dislike violence, Major, it upsets me. It has its uses, I fear, and I think you now understand that. Why did you rescue La Marquesa?’