There was yet more. Once at Verdun, the great northern fortress where officer prisoners were kept, Montbrun explained that the General would ensure that Sharpe had money to take rooms in the town, servants, and membership of all the best clubs organized by the captured British officers. Even, he said, the Literary and Philosophical Association, which was neither literary nor philosophical, but provided the wealthiest British captives with the discreet pleasures a man needed.
Sharpe thanked him.
Montbrun reached into his pouch and produced a quill and ink bottle. He pushed them to Sharpe. `You will sign, Major?’
`When will I be leaving Burgos?’ Sharpe had not touched the quill.
`Tomorrow, Major. The General is with the rearguard. You may travel by horseback or, if your wounds are troublesome, in the Marquesa’s coach. We will leave, it is expected, at nine o’clock.’
Sharpe looked at Helene and knew the temptation to yield now, to sign the paper, and share the journey with her.
She smiled. `Do, Richard.’ She shrugged. `We’re not going to let you go, you do know that.’
Verigny belched, Montbrun frowned. Sharpe smiled. `I may have to escape then.’
That shocked them. There was a second’s silence, then Verigny exploded into words, pleading words. If there was no parole then they would be forced to heap indignities upon a brave man who had suffered enough indignities at the hands of Frenchmen who were a disgrace to their country, their Emperor and their sacred flag. It was unthinkable that he should be marched as a common criminal to prison. Verigny would not hear of it! He must sign!
Yet if he signed he could not attempt an escape.
He looked at the paper again. `I will give my decision in the morning. Say at eight o’clock?’
It was the best they could do. They tried to persuade him, but he would not change his mind. `In the morning. Eight o’clock.’
Two more bottles were opened. Sharpe’s head was already feeling the effects of the first six, but he let Montbrun pour him more wine. They toasted Helene, they toasted her chances of recovering her wagons. It seemed, she said, that they had been sent to Vitoria already, but that General Verigny was confident that he would take them back for her. More wine was poured. Major Montbrun, his plump face gleaming with sweat, asked Sharpe’s permission to toast the Emperor which, the permission having been graciously given, they duly did. Out of courtesy to their guest they proposed the health of King George III, and then various other Kings including Arthur, Alfred, Charlemagne, Louis I to Louis XIV inclusive, Caesar Augustus, Old King Cole, the King of the Castle, Nebuchadnezzar, Wilfred the Hairy, and finishing with Tig-lath Pileser III, whose name they could not by then pronounce, but who had the honour to take the first of the brandy.
General Verigny was asleep. He had slept ever since he had proposed the health of Richard the Lionheart.
`He was a mignon,’ Montbrun had said, then blushed because he had said it. Now, as the sun was setting and casting long shadows on the conical piles of shells in the castle courtyard, Montbrun decided they must leave. `You will give us your decision in the morning, Major?’ His words came out slowly. He tapped the parole.
`In the morning.’
`Good. I shall leave it with you, if I may.’ He stood, and his eyes showed alarm at the effects of the wine on his balance. `Good gracious!’
Two lancers were fetched to carry the General downstairs, and one to assist Montbrun. La Marquesa, who gave her hand to Sharpe to be kissed, seemed unaffected by the drink. There were still six untouched bottles on the table. She smiled at him. `Don’t escape, Richard.’
He smiled. `Thank you for coming.’
`Poor, foolish Richard.’ She touched his cheek and followed the two officers to the stairs.
Sharpe sat. He listened to the General’s feet drag on the stairs, listened to the door open and close, heard the carriage creak, then clatter away. He stared at the parole, at the odd French words, and felt the temptation to share Helene’s coach.
The door opened.