A Man in Uniform (10 page)

“No idea,” Fournier replied. “Hides behind some silly pseudonym and publishes all kinds of trash—”

A roar from outside interrupted them—the sixth race had finished—and Fournier lifted his glass and gestured toward the windows overlooking the track. The two men moved across the room and stationed themselves where they would have a clear view of the next race.

“Do you remember that story a couple of years back about a spy, fellow they caught selling stuff to the Germans?” Dubon asked. “What did you think about that one?”

“The Jew?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Dreyfus. Some people say he’s innocent. Any truth to it, you think?”

“Oh, nonsense. I know the man who caught him red-handed.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Major Henry—”

Fournier stopped as another cheer could be heard outside the bar. The runners for the seventh race were at the starting gate. They watched them run before Dubon got another chance to speak.

“You were telling me about this major,” he prompted.

“Yes, Henry. Brilliant chap. Intercepted documents going to the German embassy and got the goods on the spy, rounded up all the evidence against Dreyfus.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Well, that’s a secret, isn’t it. Even if I knew, I would have to be careful what I said, but Henry practically caught him in the act. Devil thought he could get away with it, passing classified documents straight to the Krauts. They court-martialed him in no time. These Jews, the nerve, they come here, make their profits, then sell us out to the highest bidder. I don’t know why France lets them join the army.”

Dubon glanced around him to see if any other racegoers were listening to this rant, but the next race was about to start and the buzz of excited conversation all but drowned Fournier out.

The bell for the eighth race rang and Fournier leaned over the rail to watch, leaving Dubon to consider his vehemence. Dubon and
Geneviève had no Jewish friends; her circle was resolutely Catholic and he had made no lasting friendships with the Jewish lawyers he met professionally, but the idea of doubting their loyalty to France because of their religion struck him as silly. He had heard enough patriotic talk from Geneviève’s Catholic connections to know their declarations of undying love for the motherland were mainly hot air, and he instinctively distrusted the hysteria of the columnists represented in the widow’s clippings. Fournier, apparently, was of their number.

He should get back to the widow. The man had not told him much, except that many believed Dreyfus guilty and that the military had assembled some kind of evidence against him.

“I should be going. Friend in the stands I agreed to meet up with,” Dubon said as soon as the roar of the race was over.

“Very nice to meet you,” Fournier replied. “We should get together sometime when Morel can join us properly.”

“Yes, that would be pleasant,” Dubon said.

“Where do you know him from?”

“Oh, we were at the lycée together,” Dubon answered cautiously.

“Really?” For the first time in their conversation Fournier looked at him with what might be described as a penetrating air. “You know there is a rumor at the paper that he’s an old Communard.”

Dubon froze.

“I’ve known him for years. Not possible,” he replied quickly. If Dubon stood to lose much of his bourgeois clientele were his past to become known, Morel could surely be fired. “I should be off. Interesting to hear your take on that espionage case. I’d like to meet this Major Henry someday.”

“Yes, there are lots of us who would like to shake his hand, but you can’t exactly walk into the Statistical Section …”

“The Statistical Section?” Dubon asked, but the starter’s pistol had been fired and the runners were off again.

“What did he tell you? Does he know Azimut Martin?” the widow asked anxiously when he found her in the stands.

“No, doesn’t know the man, doesn’t know who he is. But he did provide some information.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure exactly. I need to check some details with my brothers-in-law. I’ll ask them on Sunday.”

“Sunday? What do we do in the meantime?”

“Hmm … go to the public lounge for tea, I’d say, unless you have a bet on this race, of course.”

She laughed lightly and accompanied him back inside, but tea was a rather deflated affair. Clearly, she had been expecting more of him.

As they left the track to find a cab in the roadway outside, they passed a group of newspaper vendors flogging the afternoon editions to racegoers on their way home. From the melee, one cry rose urgently above the rest. Somebody had a scoop.

“Traitor escapes. Exclusive: Traitor escapes!”

Dubon took three swift steps to the newsboy with the widow at his heels, searching in his pocket for a coin as he went. He pressed a franc into an outstretched hand and grabbed the paper.

The headline was the same as the cry—“Traitor Escapes”—and underneath it were the words: “Prisoner of Devil’s Island ripped from shackles by his German conspirators.”

Beside him the widow emitted a soft cry as her legs crumpled beneath her.

Dubon caught her just before she reached the pavement.

Dubon arrived home a few hours later looking forward to a quiet drink but found to his irritation that Geneviève had invited her younger brother to stay. Jean-Jean often visited on Sundays because his current posting was at Compiègne, near enough to the capital that he could easily spend his day off in town. He kept a change of clothes at their home and sometimes spent a Saturday night on the divan in the library; apparently, this week he would be spending Thursday and Friday nights there too. The man was humorless, but Dubon was fond of him in a way and had to recognize that he was certainly the more intelligent of the two brothers. Usually, he was happy enough to tolerate him; it was just that today he was looking forward to a family dinner without any stray relations and some time to catch up on his paperwork afterward.

“Valcourt. Good to see you,” Dubon hailed his brother-in-law. Although he thought of him as Jean-Jean, he would never have used the childhood nickname to his face. Dubon noticed, as he shook what was usually a rather limp hand, that Jean-Jean was looking larger and firmer than before. Perhaps he had put on weight. “You look well, young man,” Dubon said jovially, attempting to cover what he supposed may
have been the look of disappointment on his face as he entered the room. Not that Jean-Jean was likely to notice; largely uninterested in the part of the world that was propelled by blood and guts rather than cogs and wheels, he always seemed impervious to others’ feelings toward him.

“Good evening, Dubon. How is business?” he asked rather woodenly.

Dubon didn’t suppose that Jean-Jean cared in the least, but still, he was pleasantly surprised by the polite question. Perhaps the man was in love; he would have to ask Geneviève. A good marriage was what Jean-Jean needed to smooth his rough edges.

“Business is good, thank you. Bit busy with a delicate case these days, might have to retire to my papers after dinner, but looking forward to a good meal now … So, Geneviève, what does Cook have for us?”

Geneviève took the hint and steered her family toward the table.

“How is life at camp?” Geneviève asked her brother as they settled in their places.

“Oh, camp.” Jean-Jean seemed unprepared for the question. “Oh, um, it’s fine. Fine …” Jean-Jean paused awkwardly and then straightened himself. “Don’t expect I’ll be there much longer.”

“Why is that, dearest?” Geneviève asked in a mothering tone. “You just got there. Surely your post will run another year at least.”

“Well. Yes, but there are things in the offing.” Jean-Jean pulled himself even straighter and puffed out his chest a bit. The effect was not attractive. “Can’t talk much about it.”

Dubon began revising his judgment. This didn’t seem like an affair of the heart—unless Jean-Jean was contemplating an engagement with one whose father was so well placed in the services that he could get a new son-in-law transferred to barracks in a location more suited to a spoiled daughter. Maybe that was it.

“Contemplating a change of status, are you?” he asked.

“Perhaps. One doesn’t like to assume. Can’t really discuss it. Premature and all that. The army, Dubon, you know. Our task is of national importance and we must remain ever vigilant …”

Jean-Jean launched into a self-important paean to the armed
services, one that Dubon had heard many times before, but never from his brother-in-law. This was quite out of character.

“How’s your idea for that gun thing?” Dubon asked, thinking to stem the tide of platitudes.

At this, Jean-Jean looked fit almost to burst. “No, really can’t say. You civilians don’t understand. I mean Geneviève is different, of course. She was raised in the service, but no, I really can’t say … but things are in the offing, things on the go, you know.” He seemed torn between wanting to confide something and wanting to stress the confidentiality of all military affairs. “Yes, really can’t say, but thanks for asking.”

Dubon gave up trying to pull teeth on a subject that didn’t interest him anyway and turned to his hitherto silent son to ask him about his day. As André happily launched into an explanation of how one tested the reflexes of a frog, Dubon applied himself to a plate of rare beef. With Geneviève in the room, the question he really wanted to ask Jean-Jean would have to wait.

About three the next day, Lebrun stepped into Dubon’s office and announced, “There is a lady here who wants to see you,” in a tone that suggested he might have found a dead mouse on the landing.

Dubon sprang from his desk. He had been waiting all day for the widow to reappear.

“Yes, yes, show her in, Lebrun. Show her in.”

Lebrun, however, was not to be rushed through the formalities.

“She says her name is Madame Duhamel and that you have seen her before. At first, I thought she said she wanted Maître Déon, but she insisted that she is in the right office.”

“Yes, it’s all right, Lebrun. Show her in. She’s a new client. You weren’t here last week when she first came by. Roberge just let her waltz right in, and I haven’t told her that we don’t usually see clients in the afternoon. She was here yesterday too, when you were out at the Hôtel de Ville.”

Lebrun exited and reappeared a moment later with the widow. Her eyes were red and puffy. She must have spent the night crying.

“Maître, I am so sorry to disturb you. I hadn’t realized you generally see your clients in the morning. This gentleman—”

“Oh, pay no attention to Lebrun, Madame,” Dubon said, as his clerk withdrew stiffly. “Sit down, do sit down. I was so anxious to see you, after yesterday. Are you feeling quite all right? You don’t look yourself, Madame. Let me ask Lebrun to run to the corner and bring you some hot tea.”

The widow brushed aside the offer.

“I am fine,” she said quietly. “I wanted to offer you my apologies for yesterday. It was an unforgivable display.”

“No, Madame, you are too hard on yourself. Perfectly understandable emotion. And you recovered yourself instantly.” Indeed, the widow had only swooned and was well enough to go home from the racetrack in a barouche, unaccompanied at her own insistence.

“Thank you. You are very kind. I am beside myself, Maître,” she said. “On the one hand, I think, can it possibly be true? Has he escaped? He deserves to be free.”

Dubon tried to think of a gentle way to respond. He had doubted the likelihood of the story even as he read it at the racetrack, and the morning editions were full of the government’s denials. The escape certainly seemed both physically and politically improbable: if the Germans had managed the impossible feat of storming Devil’s Island, they would be effectively acknowledging Dreyfus as their spy. Before he could find any words, however, the widow continued, making it clear she too had been considering the implications.

“On the other hand, I think, if he has escaped, he has played into their hands, given the country grounds to think him guilty … I couldn’t sleep last night,” she added, rather unnecessarily.

He could offer her little solace but they agreed they would meet again Monday to decide how they should proceed on her file.