JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 32 из 223” Tremgar had beenpacking a pipe with dark tobacco that he now pushed into a pocket of his filthy coat.
Behind the servant and packhorse and, stately as a bishop in procession, rode a tall, elegant man on a tall, elegant horse. The man had a delicate, sensitive face, a white cloak clasped with silver, and a bicorne hat shielded with oiled-cloth against the rain.
The gangplank was rigged again and the man, with a faint shudder as though the stench of the Amelie was too much for a gentleman of his fastidious tastes, came aboard. “I seek Major Sharpe,” he announced in a French accent to the assembled officers who had gathered in the ship’s waist.
“I’m Sharpe.” Sharpe spoke from the poop deck.
The newcomer turned in a movement that would have been elegant on a dance-floor, but seemed somewhat ludicrous on the battered deck of an erstwhile collier. He took a quizzing glass from his sleeve and, with its help, inspected the tattered uniform of Major Richard Sharpe. He bowed, somehow suggesting that he should have been the recipient of such an honour himself, then took off his waterproofed hat to reveal sleek, silver hair that was brushed back to a black velvet bow. He held out a sealed envelope. “Orders.”
Sharpe had jumped down from the poop and now tore open the envelope. “To Major Sharpe. The bearer of this note is the Comte de Maquerre. You will render him every assistance within your power. Bertram Wigram, Colonel.”
Sharpe looked into the narrow face that had been powdered pale. He suddenly remembered that Hogan, in his sick ramblings, had mentioned the name Maquereau, meaning ‘pimp’, and he wondered if the insult was a nickname for this elegant, fastidious man. “You’re the Comte de Maquerre?”
!I have that honour, Monsieur, and I travel to Arcachon with you.“ De Maquerre’s cloak had fallen open to reveal the uniform of the Chasseurs Britannique. Sharpe knew that regiment’s reputation. The officers were Frenchmen loyal to the ancien regime, while its men were deserters from the French Army and all unmitigated scoundrels. They could fight when the mood took them, but it was not a regiment Sharpe would want on his flank in battle.
“Captain Frederickson! Four men to get the Frenchman’s baggage on board! Quick now!”
De Maquerre tugged at his buttoned, kidskin gloves. “You have quarters for my horse? And the packhorse.”
“No horses,” Sharpe said sourly, which only tossed the Comte de Maquerre into a sulky fit of protests in which the name of the Due d’Angouleme, Louis XVIII, and the Lord Wellington featured prominently.
Behind the servant and packhorse and, stately as a bishop in procession, rode a tall, elegant man on a tall, elegant horse. The man had a delicate, sensitive face, a white cloak clasped with silver, and a bicorne hat shielded with oiled-cloth against the rain.
The gangplank was rigged again and the man, with a faint shudder as though the stench of the Amelie was too much for a gentleman of his fastidious tastes, came aboard. “I seek Major Sharpe,” he announced in a French accent to the assembled officers who had gathered in the ship’s waist.
“I’m Sharpe.” Sharpe spoke from the poop deck.
The newcomer turned in a movement that would have been elegant on a dance-floor, but seemed somewhat ludicrous on the battered deck of an erstwhile collier. He took a quizzing glass from his sleeve and, with its help, inspected the tattered uniform of Major Richard Sharpe. He bowed, somehow suggesting that he should have been the recipient of such an honour himself, then took off his waterproofed hat to reveal sleek, silver hair that was brushed back to a black velvet bow. He held out a sealed envelope. “Orders.”
Sharpe had jumped down from the poop and now tore open the envelope. “To Major Sharpe. The bearer of this note is the Comte de Maquerre. You will render him every assistance within your power. Bertram Wigram, Colonel.”
Sharpe looked into the narrow face that had been powdered pale. He suddenly remembered that Hogan, in his sick ramblings, had mentioned the name Maquereau, meaning ‘pimp’, and he wondered if the insult was a nickname for this elegant, fastidious man. “You’re the Comte de Maquerre?”
!I have that honour, Monsieur, and I travel to Arcachon with you.“ De Maquerre’s cloak had fallen open to reveal the uniform of the Chasseurs Britannique. Sharpe knew that regiment’s reputation. The officers were Frenchmen loyal to the ancien regime, while its men were deserters from the French Army and all unmitigated scoundrels. They could fight when the mood took them, but it was not a regiment Sharpe would want on his flank in battle.
“Captain Frederickson! Four men to get the Frenchman’s baggage on board! Quick now!”
De Maquerre tugged at his buttoned, kidskin gloves. “You have quarters for my horse? And the packhorse.”
“No horses,” Sharpe said sourly, which only tossed the Comte de Maquerre into a sulky fit of protests in which the name of the Due d’Angouleme, Louis XVIII, and the Lord Wellington featured prominently.