“There.” Sharpe placed a filthy finger on the map just north of Charleroi. “A mixed force; infantry, cavalry and guns. I was there this morning, and I went back this afternoon. The road was crowded both times. I couldn’t see much this afternoon, but there must have been at least one whole corps on that road. A prisoner told me he thought Napoleon was with them, but he wasn’t certain.”
Rebecque looked up into Sharpe’s tired and dust-stained face and wondered just how Sharpe had taken a prisoner, but he knew this was no time for foolish questions. He turned to the other staff officers who were crowding into the room. “Winckler! Fetch the Prince back, and hurry! Harry! Go to Dornberg, find out what in God’s name is happening in Mons. Sharpe, you get some food. Then rest.”
“I can go to Mons.”
“Rest! But food first! You look exhausted, man.”
Sharpe obeyed. He liked Rebecque, a Dutchman who, like his Prince, had been educated at Eton and Oxford. The Baron had been the Prince’s tutor at Oxford and was living proof to Sharpe that most education was a waste of effort, for none of Rebecque’s modest good sense had rubbed off on the Prince.
Sharpe went through to the deserted kitchens and found some bread, cheese and ale. As he was cutting the bread the Prince’s girl, Paulette, came sleepily into the room. She was dressed in a grey shift that was loosely belted round her waist. “All this noise!” she said irritably. “What’s happening?”
“The Emperor’s crossed the frontier.” Sharpe spoke in French.
“Good!” Paulette said fiercely.
Sharpe laughed as he cut the mould off a piece of cheese.
“Don’t you want butter on your bread?” the girl asked.
“I couldn’t find any.”
“It’s in the scullery. I’ll fetch it.” Paulette gave Sharpe a happy smile. She did not know the Rifleman well, yet she thought he was by far the best-looking man on the Prince’s staff. Many of the other officers considered themselves good-looking, but this Englishman had an interestingly scarred face and a reluctant but infectious smile. She brought a muslin-covered bowl of butter from the scullery and good-naturedly pushed Sharpe to one side. “You want an apple with your cheese?”
“Please.”
Paulette made a plate of food for herself, then poured some ale out of Sharpe’s stone bottle into one of the Prince’s Sevres teacups. She sipped the al®, then grinned. “The Prince tells me your woman is French?”
Sharpe was somewhat taken aback by the girl’s directness, but he nodded. “From Normandy.”
“How? Why? What? Tell me. I want to know!” She smiled in recognition of her own cheekiness. “I like to know everything about everyone.”
“We met at the end of the war,” Sharpe said as though that explained everything.
“And you fell in love?” she asked eagerly.
“I suppose so, yes.” He sounded sheepish.
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of! I was in love once. He was a dragon, but he went off to fight in Russia, poor boy. That was the last I saw of him. He said he would marry me, but I suppose he was eaten by wolves or killed by cossacks.” She sighed in sad memory of her lost Dragoon. “Will you marry your French lady?”
“I can’t. I’m already married to a lady who lives in England.”
Paulette shrugged that difficulty aside. “So divorce her!”
“It’s impossible. In England a divorce costs more money than you can dream of. I’d have to go to Parliament and bribe them to pass a law specially for my divorce.”
“The English are stupid. I suppose that’s why the Prince likes them so much. He feels at home there.” She laughed. She had thick brown hair, slanting eyes, and a cat-like face. “Were you living in France with your woman?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because the Emperor would have put me in prison if I’d have stayed, and because I needed my half-pay.”
“Your half-pay?”
Sharpe was both amused and irritated by her questioning, but it was harmless, so he indulged her. “I received a pension from the English army. If I’d have stayed in France there would have been no pension.”