âOfficers!â His shout echoed through the house. âOfficers!â He ran at the stairs, taking them three at a time. âShow me.â He pushed past Sharpe into the map room where he threw back the heavy wooden shutters to flood the tables with sunlight.
âThere.â Sharpe placed a filthy finger on the map just north of Charleroi. âA mixed force; infantry, cavalry and guns. I was there this morning, and I went back this afternoon. The road was crowded both times. I couldnât 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 wasnât certain.â
Rebecque looked up into Sharpeâs 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. âWinckler! Fetch the Prince back, and hurry! Harry! Go to Dornberg, find out what in Godâs name is happening in Mons. Sharpe, you get some food. Then rest.â
âI can go to Mons.â
âRest! But food first! You look exhausted, man.â
Sharpe obeyed. He liked Rebecque, a Dutchman who, like his Prince, had been educated at Eton and Oxford. The Baron had been the Princeâs tutor at Oxford and was living proof to Sharpe that most education was a waste of effort, for none of Rebecqueâs 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 Princeâs girl, Paulette, came sleepily into the room. She was dressed in a grey shift that was loosely belted round her waist. âAll this noise!â she said irritably. âWhatâs happening?â
âThe Emperorâs crossed the frontier.â Sharpe spoke in French.
âGood!â Paulette said fiercely.
Sharpe laughed as he cut the mould off a piece of cheese.
âDonât you want butter on your bread?â the girl asked.
âI couldnât find any.â
âItâs in the scullery. Iâll fetch it.â 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 Princeâs 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. âYou want an apple with your cheese?â
âPlease.â
Paulette made a plate of food for herself, then poured some ale out of Sharpeâs stone bottle into one of the Princeâs Sèvres teacups. She sipped the ale, then grinned. âThe Prince tells me your woman is French?â
Sharpe was somewhat taken aback by the girlâs directness, but he nodded. âFrom Normandy.â
âHow? Why? What? Tell me. I want to know!â She smiled in recognition of her own cheekiness. âI like to know everything about everyone.â
âWe met at the end of the war,â Sharpe said as though that explained everything.
âAnd you fell in love?â she asked eagerly.
âI suppose so, yes.â He sounded sheepish.
âThatâs 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.â She sighed in sad memory of her lost Dragoon. âWill you marry your French lady?â
âI canât. Iâm already married to a lady who lives in England.â
Paulette shrugged that difficulty aside. âSo divorce her!â
âItâs impossible. In England a divorce costs more money than you can dream of. Iâd have to go to Parliament and bribe
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