Lucille had come back to the kitchen. "I wasn't thinking about the army,»

Sharpe said, "but of shooting some foxes at dawn tomorrow. Lambing's not far off. Then it's back to that bloody mill. Christmas or not, I've got to chip those wheels, clear the leat, then rebuild the paddles. God knows how long it'll all take." "In the old days, " Lucille said, "we would have the whole village to help, and when the work was done we would give them a feast."

"Those were the good old days, " Sharpe said, "and they were too good to last.

And it wouldn't do me much bloody good asking the village for help, would it?

They'd as soon shoot me as help me." "You must give them time, " Lucille said.

"They are peasants. If you live here 20 years they will begin to recognise you." "Oh, they recognise me, " Sharpe said. "Cross the street, they do, so they don't have to breathe the same air as me. It's that bloody Malan. Hates me, he does."

LUCILLE shrugged. "Jacques is still loyal to Bonaparte. What do you expect?

And besides, " she hesitated. "Besides what?" Sharpe prompted her. "A long time ago, when I was a girl, Jacques Malan thought he was in love with me. He pursued me. One night he was even on the roof! " She sounded indignant at the memory. "He was peering through my bedroom window! " "Get an eyeful, did he?"

"More than he should have! " said Lucille. "My father was furious that Jacques should even think about me. Jacques-Malan was a peasant, and my father was the Vicomte de Seleglise." She laughed. "But Jacques's not such a bad man. Just disappointed."

"He's a lazy bastard, that's what he is, " Sharpe said. "I cut that timber for the priest and Jacques was supposed to collect it, but has he? Hell! He does nothing but drink his mother's pension away." The thought of Jacques Malan always made Sharpe angry, for Malan seemed determined to drive Sharpe from the village by sheer unfriendliness.