Sharpe gazed attentively about the room, knowing that when he was back home Lucille would demand to hear a thousand details. He noted how low the ceiling was, and how the plaster of the ceiling was yellowed and sagging, as if, at any moment, the roof might fall in. He heard the scrabble of rats again, and marked other signs of decay like the mildew on the green velvet curtains, the tarnish in the silvering of a looking-glass, and the flaking of the gilt on the glass's frame. Under the mirror a pack of worn playing cards lay carelessly strewn on a small round table beside a silver-framed portrait of a child dressed in an elaborate uniform. A torn cloak, lined with a check pattern, hung from a hook on the door. "And you, monsieur, you are no Spaniard. What is your business here?"
The Emperor's question, in French, had been addressed to Sharpe who, taken aback and not concentrating, said nothing. The interpreter, assuming that Sharpe had misunderstood the Emperor's accent, began to translate, but then Sharpe, suddenly dry-mouthed and horribly nervous, found his tongue. "I am a passenger on the Espiritu Santo, Your Majesty. Traveling to Chile with my friend from Ireland, Mister Patrick Harper."
The Emperor smiled. "Your very substantial friend?"
"When he was my Regimental Sergeant Major he was somewhat less substantial, but just as impressive." Sharpe could feel his right leg twitching with fear. Why, for God's sake? Bonaparte was just another man, and a defeated one at that. Moreover, the Emperor was a man, Sharpe tried to convince himself, of no account anymore. The prefect of a small French departement had more power than Bonaparte now, yet still Sharpe felt dreadfully nervous.
"You are passengers?" the Emperor asked in wonderment. "Going to Chile?"
"We are traveling to Chile in the interests of an old friend. We go to search for her husband, who is missing in battle. It is a debt of honor, Your Majesty."
"And you, monsieur? The question, in French, was addressed to Harper, "you travel for the same reason?"
Sharpe translated both the question and Harper's answer. "He says that he found life after the war tedious, Your Majesty, and thus welcomed this chance to accompany me."
"Ah! How well I understand tedium. Nothing to do but put on weight, eh?" The Emperor lightly patted his belly, then looked back to Sharpe. "You speak French well, for an Englishman."
"I have the honor to live in France, Your Majesty."
"You do?" The Emperor sounded hurt and, for the first time since the visitors had come into the room, an expression of genuine feeling crossed Bonaparte's face. Then he managed to cover his envy by a friendly smile. "You are accorded a privilege denied to me. Where in France?"
"In Normandy, Your Majesty."
"Why?"
Sharpe hesitated, then shrugged. "Unefemme."
The Emperor laughed so naturally that it seemed as though a great tension had snapped in the room. Even Bonaparte's supercilious aides smiled. "A good reason," the Emperor said, "an excellent reason! Indeed, the only reason, for a man usually has no control over women. Your name, monsieur."
"Sharpe, Your Majesty." Sharpe paused, then decided to try his luck at a more intimate appeal to Bonaparte. "I was a friend of General Calvet, of Your Majesty's army. I did General Calvet some small service in Naples before—" Sharpe could not bring himself to say Waterloo, or even to refer to the Emperor's doomed escape from Elba which, by route of fifty thousand deaths, had led to this damp, rat-infested room in the middle of oblivion. "I did the service," Sharpe continued awkwardly, "in the summer of'14."
Bonaparte rested his chin on his right hand and stared for a long time at the Rifleman. The Spaniards, resenting that Sharpe had taken over their audience with the exiled tyrant, scowled. No one spoke. A rat scampered behind the wainscot, rain splashed in the bucket, and the wind gusted sudden and loud in the chimney.
"You will stay here, monsieur," Bonaparte said abruptly to Sharpe, "and we will talk."
The Emperor, conscious of the Spaniards' disgruntlement, turned back to Ruiz and complimented his officers on their martial appearance, then commiserated with their Chilean enemies for the defeat they would suffer when Ruiz's guns finally arrived. The Spaniards, all except for the scowling Ardiles, bristled with gratified pride. Bonaparte thanked them all for visiting him, wished them well on their further voyage, then dismissed them. When they were gone, and when only Sharpe, Harper, an aide-de-camp and the liveried servant remained in the room, the Emperor pointed Sharpe toward a chair. "Sit. We shall talk."
Sharpe sat. Beyond the windows the rain smashed malevolently across the uplands and drowned the newly dug ponds in the garden. The Spanish officers waited in the billiard room, a servant brought wine to the audience room, and Bonaparte talked with a Rifleman.
The Emperor had nothing but scorn for Colonel Ruiz and his hopes of victory in Chile. "They've already lost that war, just as they've lost every other colony in South America, and the sooner they pull their troops out, the better. That man," this was accompanied by a dismissive wave of the hand toward the door through which Colonel Ruiz had disappeared, "is like a man whose house is on fire, but who is saving his piss to extinguish his pipe tobacco. From what I hear there'll be a revolution in Spain within the year." Bonaparte made another scornful gesture at the billiard-room door, then turned his dark eyes on Sharpe. "But who cares about Spain. Talk to me of France."
Sharpe, as best he could, described the nervous weariness of France; how the royalists hated the liberals, who in turn distrusted the republicans, who detested the ultra-royalists, who feared the remaining Bonapartistes, who despised the clergy, who preached against the Orleanists. In short, it was a cocotte, a stew pot.
The Emperor liked Sharpe's diagnosis. "Or perhaps it is a powder keg? Waiting for a spark?"
"The powder's damp," Sharpe said bluntly.
Napoleon shrugged. "The spark is feeble, too. I feel old. I am not old! But I feel old. You like the wine?"
"Indeed, sir." Sharpe had forgotten to call Bonaparte Votre Majeste, but His Imperial Majesty did not seem to mind.
"It is South African," the Emperor said in wonderment. "I would prefer French wine, but of course the bastards in London won't allow me any, and if my friends do send wine from France then that hog's turd down the hill confiscates it. But this African wine is surprisingly drinkable, is it not? It is called Vin de Constance. I suppose they give it a French name to suggest that it has superb quality." He turned the stemmed glass in his hand, then offered Sharpe a wry smile. "But I sometimes dream of drinking a glass of my Chambertin again. You know I made my armies salute those grapes when they marched past the vineyards?"
"So I have heard, sir."
Bonaparte quizzed Sharpe. Where was he born? What had been his regiments? His service? His promotions? The Emperor professed surprise that Sharpe had been promoted from the ranks, and seemed reluctant to credit the Rifleman's claim that one in every twenty British officers had been similarly promoted. "But in my army," Bonaparte said passionately, "you would have become a General! You know that?"