Sharpe 21 - Sharpe's Devil Read Online Free PDF Page A

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?”
    Your army lost, Sharpe thought, but was too polite to say as much, so instead he just smiled and thanked the Emperor for the implied compliment.
    “Not that you'd have been a Rifleman in my army.” The Emperor provoked Sharpe. “I never had time for rifles. Too delicate a weapon, too fussy, too temperamental. Just like a woman!”
    “But soldiers like women, sir, don't they?”
    The Emperor laughed. The aide-de-camp, disapproving that Sharpe so often forgot to use the royal honorific, scowled, but the Emperor seemed relaxed. He teased Harper about his belly, ordered another bottle of the South African wine, then asked Sharpe just who it was that he sought in South America.
    “His name is Bias Vivar, sir. He is a Spanish officer, and a good one, but he has disappeared. I fought alongside him once, many years ago, and we became friends. His wife asked me to search for him,” Sharpe paused, then shrugged. “She is paying me to search for him. She has received no help from her own government, and no news from the Spanish army.”
    “It was always a bad army. Too many officers, but good troops, if you could make them fight.” The Emperor stood and walked stiffly to the window from where he stared glumly at the pelting rain. Sharpe stood as well, out of politeness, but Bonaparte waved him down. “So you know Calvet?” The Emperor turned at last from the rain.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Do you know his Christian name?”
    Sharpe supposed the question was a test to determine if he was telling the truth. He nodded. “Jean.”
    “Jean!“ The Emperor laughed. ”He tells people his name is Jean, but in truth he was christened Jean-Baptiste! Ha! The belligerent Calvet is named for the original head-wetter!“ Bonaparte gave a brief chuckle at the thought as he returned to his chair. ”He's living in Louisiana now."
    “Louisiana?” Sharpe could not imagine Calvet in America.
    “Many of my soldiers live there.” Bonaparte sounded wistful. “They cannot stomach that fat man who calls himself the King of France, so they live in the New World instead.” The Emperor