He pushed open the kitchen door. “Got one of the sods,” he announced happily, then went very still. A small bespectacled man was sitting opposite Lucille.
Another man was behind her with a pistol pointing at her black hair. Marie was huddled in the corner chair, while in front of Sharpe, and carrying Sharpe’s old sword that he had taken down from the wall above the spice cupboard, was a tall man with dragoon pigtails framing a face that was as hard as horn.
“Remember me?” The tall man said “Because I remember you.” He pushed the sword forward until its point touched Sharpe’s neck. “I remember you very well, Major Sharpe,” he said, “very well indeed. Welcome home.”
SHARPE sat beside Luciile at his kitchen table. One man stood behind him with a pistol while Sergeant Guy Challon chopped Sharpe’s sword into the table’s edge. “A clumsy weapon,” he said derisively. “It works better on Frenchmen than on tables,” Sharpe said. “Put the sword down, Sergeant!” the small bespectacled man complained. “Put it on the pile. Someone will pay a few francs for it.” He watched as the sergeant added the sword to the pile of silver and other small valuables that was growing beside the kitchen door. The collected loot included Lucille’s small stock of jewelry, among which had been a large ruby that had come from Napoleon’s own treasure chests and the small man had seized on the stone as evidence of Sharpe’s wealth. He had introduced himself as Maitre Henri Lorcet and explained that he was a lawyer. “And I had the honour,” he went on, of drawing up the last will and testament of Major Pierre Ducos. This is it,” he had said, producing a long document that he smoothed on the kitchen table. Now, with the sword safely put away, he tapped the paper as though it somehow gave legitimacy to his presence. “The will mentions the existence of a hoard of gold, once the property of Napoleon Bonaparte. Lorcet looked up at Sharpe, and the wan light flashed off his round spectacle lenses. “Major Ducos was kind enough to bequeath the treasure to me and to Sergeant Challon, and he indicated that you would know where it was to be found.” He paused, “You do know about this gold, Major Sharpe?” “I know about it,” Sharpe admitted. Two-years before, when Napoleon had been banished to Elba, Sharpe had helped rescue the Emperor’s treasure that had been lost on its journey to the island. Pierre Ducos had stolen the gold, and Sergeant Challon had been Ducos’s helper, and though Ducos was long dead, he had somehow reached from his grave to wish this trouble on his old enemy.
“WE HAVE nothing!” Lucille insisted, “other than what you see.” Maitre Lorcet took no notice of her protest. “The value of the gold amounted to 200,000 francs, I believe?” Sharpe laughed. “Your friend Ducos spent half of that!”
“So? 100,000 francs,” Lorcet said equably, as well he might, for the halved sum was still close to 50,000 pounds, and a man could live in luxury on 200 pounds a year. “I wasn’t alone when I took that gold,” Sharpe told the lawyer.
“Ask your friend, Sergeant Challon,” he jerked his head at the big man. “I was with General Calvet. You think he didn’t want some of the gold? ” Challon nodded confirmation, but Lorcet merely shrugged. “So you divided the treasure,” he conceded, “but you must have some left, surely?” Sharpe was silent. “I’11 hit him, Maitre,” Challon offered. “I detest violence,” the lawyer said. “Come, Major,” he pleaded with Sharpe, “you have surely not spent it all?” Sharpe sighed as though surrendering to the inevitable. “There’s 40,000 left,” he confessed, and heard Lucille’s gasp of surprise. “Maybe a bit more,” he admitted grudgingly. Henri Lorcet smiled with relief for he had feared there would be nothing at the end of his long quest. “So tell me where it is, Major,” he said, “and we shall take it away and leave you in peace.” It was Sharpe’s turn to smile. “It’s all in a Bank, Lorcet. It’s in Monsieur Plaquet’s bank in the rue Deauville in Caen. It’s in a big iron-cornered box, locked in a stone vault behind an iron-ribbed door and Monsieur Plaquet has one key to the vault and I have the other.” Sergeant Challon spat at the stove, then twisted and untwisted one of the long pigtails that framed his face. Napoleon’s dragoons had all grown the braids, wearing them as a mark of pride, yet few men had kept them since the Emperor’s defeat. Challon had kept his, proclaiming himself a soldier, but a soldier who evidently did not understand the strange and respectable world of banks. “He’s lying,” he growled at the lawyer. “Let me knock the truth out of him.” “So hit me, Sergeant,” Sharpe said, “and then tear the chateau down, and when you find nothing, what will you do then?” “I’ll kill you” Challon suggested, “and take what we already have. Like this.”