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Sharpes Escape :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 195 из 283He spoke to Sharpe, his voice relaxed and friendly, and Sharpe grunted back and the officer did not seem to mind that his subject madeno sense. It was dusk when the officer finished and he stood and brought the picture to Sharpe and asked his opinion. The Frenchman was smiling, pleased with his work, and Sharpe gazed at the drawing of a villainous-looking man, scarred and frightening, leaning in shirtsleeves against the doorway with a rifle propped at his side and a sword hanging from his waist. Had the fool not seen they were British weapons? The officer, who was young, fair-haired and good-looking, prompted Sharpe for a response, and Sharpe shrugged, wondering if he would have to draw the sword and fillet the man.
Then Sarah appeared and said something in fluent French and the officer snatched off his forage cap, bowed and showed the picture to Sarah who must have expressed delight, for the man tore it from his big book and gave it to her with another bow. They spoke for a few more minutes, or rather the officer spoke and Sarah seemed to agree with everything he said, adding very few words of her own and then, at last, the officer kissed her hand, nodded amicably to Sharpe, and disappeared up the steps through the far archway. "What was that all about?" Sharpe asked.
"I told him we were Dutch. He seemed to think you were a cavalryman."
"He saw the sword, overalls and boots," Sharpe explained. "He wasn't suspicious?"
"He said you were the very picture of a modern soldier," Sarah said, looking at the drawing.
"That's me," Sharpe said, "a work of art."
"He actually said that you were the image of a people's fury released on an old and corrupt world."
"Bloody hell," Sharpe said.
"And he said it was a shame what was being done in the city, but that it was unavoidable."
"What's wrong with discipline?"
"Unavoidable," Sarah ignored Sharpe's question, "because Coimbra represents the old world of superstition and privilege."
"So he was another Crapaud full of… " Sharpe started.
"Shit?" Sarah interrupted him.
Sharpe looked at her. "You're a strange one, love."
"Good," she said.
"Did you sleep?" Sharpe asked her.
"I slept. Now you must."
"Someone has to stand guard," Sharpe said, though he had not done a particularly good job. He had been fast asleep when the French officer came and it had only been pure luck that it had been a man with a sketch book instead of some bastard looking for plunder. "What you could do," he suggested, "is see if the fire in the kitchen can be revived and make us some tea."
"Tea?"
"There are some leaves in my haversack," Sharpe said.
Then Sarah appeared and said something in fluent French and the officer snatched off his forage cap, bowed and showed the picture to Sarah who must have expressed delight, for the man tore it from his big book and gave it to her with another bow. They spoke for a few more minutes, or rather the officer spoke and Sarah seemed to agree with everything he said, adding very few words of her own and then, at last, the officer kissed her hand, nodded amicably to Sharpe, and disappeared up the steps through the far archway. "What was that all about?" Sharpe asked.
"I told him we were Dutch. He seemed to think you were a cavalryman."
"He saw the sword, overalls and boots," Sharpe explained. "He wasn't suspicious?"
"He said you were the very picture of a modern soldier," Sarah said, looking at the drawing.
"That's me," Sharpe said, "a work of art."
"He actually said that you were the image of a people's fury released on an old and corrupt world."
"Bloody hell," Sharpe said.
"And he said it was a shame what was being done in the city, but that it was unavoidable."
"What's wrong with discipline?"
"Unavoidable," Sarah ignored Sharpe's question, "because Coimbra represents the old world of superstition and privilege."
"So he was another Crapaud full of… " Sharpe started.
"Shit?" Sarah interrupted him.
Sharpe looked at her. "You're a strange one, love."
"Good," she said.
"Did you sleep?" Sharpe asked her.
"I slept. Now you must."
"Someone has to stand guard," Sharpe said, though he had not done a particularly good job. He had been fast asleep when the French officer came and it had only been pure luck that it had been a man with a sketch book instead of some bastard looking for plunder. "What you could do," he suggested, "is see if the fire in the kitchen can be revived and make us some tea."
"Tea?"
"There are some leaves in my haversack," Sharpe said.