Under Enemy Colors Read Online Free PDF

you speak, dear Henri? Come now, don’t be modest.”
    “Fluently?” Henrietta asked. Apparently they had played this game before.
    “Let us begin with those you speak fluently and pass on to the others presently. Is it five or six?”
    “You are evidently more familiar with this subject than I,” Henrietta protested.
    “English we shall not count,” Mrs Hertle rejoined. “French, of course.” Mrs Hertle pushed up a slim finger, a glance finding Charles, then returning. “Italian, Spanish, High German—or is it Low?”
    “Both,” Henrietta admitted.
    “Greek and the Latin…”
    “Not to be counted, as I read them only.”
    “Dutch,” Mrs Hertle continued. “Does it come in High and Low?”
    “Mmm…” her victim shrugged, pretending not to know.
    Mrs Hertle counted off another finger. “Six, or is that seven? And then either Danish or Swedish, I can never remember.”
    “Danish, but I am by no means fluent.” Henrietta’s unblemished skin had begun to colour—the object of Mrs Hertle’s cross-examination, Hayden guessed.
    “We shall count Danish…” Mrs Hertle said, “for you are rather prone to modesty. I will make that eight, or seven if you insist, but we must not forget Russian.”
    “By no means, Russian. I am unable to carry a conversation beyond mere pleasantries.”
    Mrs Hertle laughed. “Seven, plus one half for Russian, and I’m certain I have missed a tongue or two. It is quite a little catalogue, don’t you think, Lieutenant Hayden?”
    “Very impressive. Apparently Mr Carthew’s pedagogical methods were as successful as he claimed.”
    “I think, the truth is that dear Henrietta has a genius for language.”
    “Rather like me,” Robert declared, to a roll of the eyes from his wife and laughter from the others. Robert’s attempts at French and Spanish were the subject of much teasing within their circle.
    “He did manage some striking results with his gifted daughters,” Mrs Hertle said, gazing unselfconsciously at her cousin.
    “Charles speaks a number of languages,” Robert noted. “French he had at his mother’s knee and speaks it like a native. Of course, he spent almost half his childhood there. He is also fluent in the argot of Cheap-side. The other day he said to me, ‘You’ve dropped your foggle, Robert,’ and I had not a clue what he meant.”
    “Pray, what does it mean?” demanded Henrietta. “Or should a lady not inquire?”
    “‘Handkerchief,’” Robert told her. “But then many men of fashion speak the cant these days.”
    “I did not realize you were such a follower of fashion, Lieutenant,” Miss Henrietta observed, her manner a little mocking, Hayden thought.
    “In truth, I’m not. I had, for a time, a servant aboard one of my ships who had been an ‘angler’—a thief who used a hooked stick to steal things through gratings and from shop windows. He and a few others aboard spoke what amounted to another language. I’m not sure why, but I found it more than a little fascinating. I even began to compile a lexicon. For instance, ‘balderdash’ is watered-down wine.”
    “Tell them what ‘bachelor’s fare’ is…” Robert urged.
    “Bread, cheese, and kisses.”
    The ladies pretended to be shocked, but then Henrietta became quite serious.
    “Do you miss it, Lieutenant?” Henrietta asked, almost solicitously. “France, I mean.”
    Hayden was not quite sure how to answer. “At times I do, for I am a man terribly divided. An Englishman raised on French food, wine, and their particular variety of conversation. At the same time, I am a French-man who prefers English order, government, and rationality. The French are passionate, proud, and prone to letting emotions make their decisions—which makes me cherish my English side even more.”
    “But if all the ills of France were cured tomorrow and order restored, in which country would you choose to live?” Henrietta regarded him closely, as though the answer to this question were of