“She’ll regret it, sir. So will he!”

“God!” Sharpe almost said the word as a burst of laughter, then, after another long pause during which Harper could scarcely even bear to look at him, Sharpe spoke again. “Her brother was rotten to his black heart.”

“So he was, sir.”

“Not that it really matters, Patrick. Not that it really matters at all,” Sharpe said in a very odd voice. “It’s just sauce for the goose, I suppose.”

Harper did not understand, nor did he like to ask for any explanation. He sensed Sharpe’s hurt, but did not know how to salve it, so he said nothing.

Sharpe stared at the northern hill. “Rossendale and Jane must think I’m done for, don’t they?”

“I suppose so, sir. They think the Crapauds will arrest you for murder and chop your head off.”

“Perhaps they will.” Not six months before, Sharpe thought, he had commanded his own battalion, had a wife he loved, and could have called upon the patronage of a prince. Now he wore a cuckold’s horns and would be the laughing stock of his enemies, but there was nothing he could do except bear the agony. He pushed himself upright. “We’ll not mention this again, Sergeant.”

“No, sir.” Harper was feeling immensely relieved. Sharpe, he thought, had taken the news far better than he had expected.

“And tomorrow we leave for Paris,” Sharpe said brusquely. “You’ve got money?”

“I fetched some from London, sir.”

“We’ll hire horses in Caen. Perhaps, if you’d be kind enough, you’ll lend me some so I can pay Madame Castineau for her services to me? I’ll repay you when I can.” Sharpe frowned. “If I can.”

“Don’t even think about repaying it, sir.”

“So let’s go and kill the bugger!” Sharpe spoke with an extraordinary malevolence, and Harper somehow doubted whether Pierre Ducos was the man Sharpe spoke of.

Next morning they wrapped their weapons and, in a summer rainstorm, left Lucille’s chateau to find an enemy.

CHAPTER 11

If William Frederickson was in need of solace after his disappointment that Lucille Castineau had rejected his proposal of marriage, then no place was better provided to supply that solace than Paris.

At first he made no efforts to track down Pierre Ducos; instead he simply threw himself into an orgy of distraction to take his mind away from the widow Castineau. He wandered the city streets and admired building after building. He sketched Notre-Dame, the Conciergerie, the Louvre, and his favourite building, the Madeleine. His best drawing, for it was suffused with his own misery, was of the abandoned Arc de Triumphe, intended to be a massive monument to Napoleon’s victories, but now nothing more than the stumps of unfaced walls which stood like ruins in a muddy field. Russian soldiers were encamped about the abandoned monument while their women hung washing from its truncated stonework.

The city was filled with the troops of the victorious allies. The Russians were in the Champs-Eilysees, the Prussians in the Tuileries, and there were even a few British troops bivouacking in the great square where Louis XVI’s head had been cut off. A prurient curiosity made Frederickson pay a precious sou to see the Souriciere, the ‘mousetrap’, which was the undercroft of the Conciergerie where the guillotine’s victims had been given their ‘toilette’ before climbing into the tumbrils. The ‘toilette’ was a haircut that exposed the neck’s nape so that the blade would not be obstructed, and Frederickson’s guide, a cheerful man, claimed that half Paris’s mattresses were stuffed with the tresses of dead aristocrats. Frederickson probed the thin mattress in his cheap lodging house and was disappointed to find nothing but horsehair. The owner of the house believed Herr Friedrich to be a veteran of the Emperor’s armies; one of the many Germans who had fought for France.

On the day after his visit to the Conciergerie, Frederickson met an Austrian cavalry Sergeant’s wife who had fled from her husband and now sought a protector. For a week Frederickson thought he had successfully blotted Lucille out of his mind, but then the Austrian woman went back to her husband and Frederickson again felt the pain of rejection. He tried to exorcise it by walking to Versailles where he drowned himself in the chateau’s magnificence. He bought a new sketchbook and for three days he feverishly sketched the great palace, but all the while, though he tried to deny it to himself, he was thinking of Madame Castineau. At night he would try to draw her face until, disgusted with his obession, he tore up the sketchbook and walked back to Paris to begin his search for Pierre Ducos.

The records of the Imperial Army were still held in the Invalides, guarded there by a sour-faced archivist who admitted that no one had informed him what he was expected to do with the imperial records. “No one is interested any more.”

“I am,” Frederickson said, and at the cost of a few hours sympathetic listening to the archivist, he was given access to the precious files. After three weeks Frederickson had still not found Pierre Ducos. He had found much else that was fascinating, scandals that could waste hours of time to explore, but there was no file on Ducos. The man might as well never have existed.

The archivist, sensing a fellow bitterness in Herr Friedrich’s soul, became enthusiastic about the search, which he believed was for Frederickson’s former commanding officer. “Have you written to the other officers you and he served with?”

“I tried that,” Frederickson said, but then a stray idea flickered into his thoughts. It was an idea so tenuous that he almost ignored it, but, because the archivist was breathing into his face, and because the man had lunched well on garlic soup, Frederickson admitted there was one officer he had not contacted. “A Commandant Lassan,” he said, “I think he commanded a coastal fort. I didn’t know him, but Major Ducos often talked of him.”

“Let’s look for him. Lassan, you said?”

The idea was very nebulous. Frederickson could now wander freely among the file shelves, but, before Napoleon’s surrender, regulations had strictly controlled access to the imperial files. Then, any officer drawing a file had his name, and that day’s date, written on the file’s cover, and Frederickson had been wondering whether Ducos had discovered Lassan through these dusty records and, if so, whether the dead man’s file would show Ducos’s signature on its cover. If it did — the idea was very tenuous — the archivist might remember the man who had drawn that file.

“It shows an address in Normandy.” The archivist had discovered Lassan’s slim file. “The Chateau Lassan. I doubt that’s one of the great houses of France. I’ve never heard of it.”

“May I see?” Frederickson took the file and felt the familiar pang as he saw Lucille’s address. Then he looked at the file’s cover. There was only one signature, that of a Colonel Joliot, but the date beside Joliot’s name showed that this file had been consulted just two weeks before Lassan’s murder. The coincidence was too fortuitous, so, rejecting coincidence, “Colonel Joliot‘ had to be Pierre Ducos. ”Joliot,“ Frederickson said, ”that sounds a familiar name?“

“It would be if you wore spectacles!” The archivist touched an inky finger to his own eyeglasses. “The Joliot brothers are the most reputable spectacle makers in Paris.”

Ducos wore spectacles. Frederickson recalled Sharpe describing the Frenchman’s livid anger when Sharpe had once broken those precious spectacles in Spain. Had Ducos consulted this file, then scribbled a familiar name on its cover as a disguise for his own identity? Frederickson had to hide his sudden excitement, which was that of a hunter sighting his prey. “Where would I find the Joliot brothers?”

“They’re behind the Palais de Chaillot, Capitaine Friedrich, but I assure you that neither of them is a colonel!” The archivist tapped the signature.