The big man had returned defeated from Waterloo and ever since had sat around the village in a sulk. He did no work, he earned no money, he just sat glowering at the passing world and dreaming of the days when the Emperor's soldiers had strutted though Europe. The rest of the village feared to cross him, for though he had neither land nor money, Jacques Malan possessed an undeniable force of character. "He was a sergeant, wasn't he?" Sharpe asked. "A sergeant in the Imperial Guard, " Lucille confirmed, "the Old Guard, no less." "And I'm the only enemy he's got left now, so there's not much hope of him helping me clear out the leat. Sod him,»

Sharpe said. "Is Patrick asleep?"

"Fast asleep, " Lucille said, then frowned. "Why do you English say 'fast asleep'? Why not slow asleep? I think your language is mad." "Fast or slow, who cares? Long as the child's asleep, eh? So what shall we do tonight?"

Lucille skipped away from his arms. "For a start, we shall eat." "And after that?" Lucille let herself be caught. "Who knows?" She asked, though she did know, and she closed her eyes and prayed that Sharpe would stay in Normandy, for she worried that the village might yet repel him. A man could not live without friends, and Sharpe's friends were far away, too far away, and she feared for his happiness. But this was her farm and her house, and she could not bear the thought of leaving. Let us stay, she prayed, please God, let us stay.

SHARPE woke early on the morning of Christmas Eve. He slid from the bed, picked up his clothes fiom the chair beside the door, then tip-toed from the room so as not to wake Lucille. He paused to look at his son who slept in the crib in the next room, then hurried to the kitchen where, still naked, he stooped to riddle the stove and feed it with wood. "Bonjour, monsieur! " Marie, the old woman who was the one house servant left, peered at him from the larder.