The Emperor's question, in French, had been addressed to Sharpe who, taken aback and not concentrating, said nothing. The interpreter, assuming that Sharpe had misunderstood the Emperor's accent, began to translate, but then Sharpe, suddenly dry-mouthed and horribly nervous, found his tongue. "I am a passenger on the Espiritu Santo, Your Majesty. Traveling to Chile with my friend from Ireland, Mister Patrick Harper."

The Emperor smiled. "Your very substantial friend?"

"When he was my Regimental Sergeant Major he was somewhat less substantial, but just as impressive." Sharpe could feel his right leg twitching with fear. Why, for God's sake? Bonaparte was just another man, and a defeated one at that. Moreover, the Emperor was a man, Sharpe tried to convince himself, of no account anymore. The prefect of a small French departement had more power than Bonaparte now, yet still Sharpe felt dreadfully nervous.

"You are passengers?" the Emperor asked in wonderment. "Going to Chile?"

"We are traveling to Chile in the interests of an old friend. We go to search for her husband, who is missing in battle. It is a debt of honor, Your Majesty."

"And you, monsieur? The question, in French, was addressed to Harper, "you travel for the same reason?"

Sharpe translated both the question and Harper's answer. "He says that he found life after the war tedious, Your Majesty, and thus welcomed this chance to accompany me."

"Ah! How well I understand tedium. Nothing to do but put on weight, eh?" The Emperor lightly patted his belly, then looked back to Sharpe. "You speak French well, for an Englishman."

"I have the honor to live in France, Your Majesty."

"You do?" The Emperor sounded hurt and, for the first time since the visitors had come into the room, an expression of genuine feeling crossed Bonaparte's face. Then he managed to cover his envy by a friendly smile. "You are accorded a privilege denied to me. Where in France?"