A Man in Uniform (22 page)

“Very good, Colonel,” Dubon said, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice.

Extra evidence not submitted as an exhibit? The colonel had the secret file, and the key to getting Dreyfus an appeal, sitting right on his desk. Dubon just had to figure out some way of getting at it.

He took his load of files back to his desk, pulled the remainder of the list, organized all the folders in piles on the floor, and began the laborious process of scanning every document in each one. Much of the material was handwritten and Dubon often had to read a page at length to decipher its contents and eliminate it. After some time he glanced up at the wall clock. It was already ten and he needed to get home on time for Saturday lunch. First, though, he had to get back across the river to his own office, where he could change out of his uniform before he headed to the apartment. There, he needed somehow to sneak the uniform back into the armoire in his study, so that it could be conveniently discovered for Jean-Jean, whose outrage of the previous evening had been caused by returning from maneuvers to find it missing. Jean-Jean had gone out for dinner wearing his dress uniform, with Geneviève assuring him the other one would show up before it was needed on Monday. And then Dubon was due back at his office for a three o’clock meeting with the widow.

God knows what I’ll do for a uniform on Monday, he thought as he discarded one file and moved to the next, if I’m still here. One thing at a time, he reminded himself as he began skimming intelligence reports on the activities of a Russian ballerina, hunting for any bit of paper that mentioned the captain.

As he replaced the ballerina’s folder and turned to the next pile, he brushed against it with his sleeve, scattering classified documents all over the floor. He was scrambling to retrieve them when he looked up and found Hermann staring at it all in disapproval.

“Oh, Hermann,” Dubon gasped. “You surprised me.”

The man made no response but just kept looking at the papers without bending down to help. Finally he asked, “What are you doing, Dubon?”

Dubon found his presence so disconcerting, he had to remind himself that he had, in this instance, nothing to hide.

“I am looking for some papers for the colonel. He thinks they might have been misfiled.”

“Ah.” Hermann, who was carrying a single sheet of paper himself, turned and went into Picquart’s office.

“Thought you might want to see this, Colonel,” Dubon heard him say, before Hermann went back to his own office.

Shortly after eleven, the colonel emerged again. “Any luck?”

“No, Colonel.”

“I haven’t found anything either.” He stood there for a moment, looking at Dubon, who looked back at him, guessing his thoughts.

“Perhaps, Colonel,” Dubon ventured, “there aren’t any missing pages?”

“No, Captain. Perhaps not.”

The colonel paused and then added, “Finish up the job, then, and get home.” He started back to his office and then stopped, turning toward Dubon. “Don’t tell the major how we spent Saturday morning, will you, Captain? I will ask him about the state of the file in due course.”

An hour later, as he hurried back to his own office, it occurred to Dubon that the colonel had specifically chosen to hunt for the papers on a morning when he knew the major would be absent. Apparently, Colonel Picquart did not trust the major any more than Gingras did. Dubon changed outfits, smoothed out the wrinkles in Jean-Jean’s uniform as best he could—it was getting rather creased from crossing the river every day bundled under his arm—and headed home with his canvas bag.

He could hear noises from the dining room as he arrived but he slipped down the hall to his study. He hid the uniform in the opposite corner of the armoire from where it had been hanging, sandwiching it between two of Geneviève’s ball gowns in hopes this would provide sufficient explanation as to why Jean-Jean had been unable to find it earlier.

But that did not solve the problem of what he was to wear to the Statistical Section on Monday. Even if he could be sure his brother-in-law would now leave his fancy clothes behind, Dubon hardly wanted to draw attention to himself by showing up at the office in Jean-Jean’s best parade dress with the red braid down the pants, nor did he want to give up the chase. He was tantalizing close to the file on Captain Dreyfus and had not felt this potent combination of fear and excitement twisting his innards since his best days with Maître Gaillard. He took a breath to calm himself and began sorting through the contents of the closet more carefully, examining the various outfits hanging there, and stopping at a slimmer navy tunic, so insignificant compared to the general’s old greatcoat that hung beside it that he must have passed it by before.

“
Dieu, merci.
” He pulled the hanger from the closet. There were the captain’s stripes on the tunic’s sleeve and the blue pants with the blue braid down the sides. Jean-Jean’s summer clothes. Cotton instead of wool. Jean-Jean had made no mention of changing over to summer wear yet. Dubon could probably count on getting a few days out of it, long enough to make some kind of plan to get hold of the secret file. He tucked the uniform right inside the greatcoat to be certain no one found it, and then surveyed the closet. Reaching for the wool tunic he had been wearing that morning, he tweaked a bit of it forward so that it could be seen peeking around a ballgown. Satisfied with the effect, he hurried back across the apartment.

To his relief he heard Geneviève announcing, “We are going to have one more good hunt in that armoire,” as he pushed open the dining room door. “Lost things are often where you would expect them to be—you just haven’t looked quite hard enough,” she continued. “François, where in heaven’s name have you been? At twelve thirty we simply gave up and went to the table.”

“Busy at the office these days,” he mumbled as he sat down, knowing the excuse and her patience were wearing thin but that Geneviève would not want a showdown in front of Masson, who was seated at the table with Jean-Jean and André. Dubon had forgotten his friend was coming for lunch, if he had ever known. He supposed Geneviève had told him.

“He has some very mysterious client at the moment whose case is keeping him horribly busy,” Geneviève explained to Masson, an uncharacteristic note of sarcasm audible in her voice. “This is the first day this week he has been here for lunch, and in the evening he arrives home at the most outlandish hours.” She glared at Dubon.

“Madame, if I were lucky enough to have a wife, I fear I would make her very unhappy,” Masson said. “I am often not home from the office before eight.”

“Well, of course, Monsieur. The affairs of government …”

“No, no. Nothing as important as that, I assure you,” he replied.

“I hope you are not implying my work is not important, Geneviève,” Dubon contributed as he lowered his soup spoon into the clear broth Luc had just set in front of him. “It may be dull, but it’s our bread and butter.” Dubon was feeling a little defensive on the subject of his professional achievements. He had built up an enviable practice and clearly he still had much to give the profession. He itched to tell somebody of his recent exploits, even if they represented unconventional behavior for a member of the bar.

“Of course it’s important, my dear. Somebody has to tend to all the paper in the world and you do an excellent job. Papa was always so grateful that time you cleared up his disagreement with the Grillets. But you aren’t keeping France safe from her enemies,” she continued, turning again to Masson.

“Madame, you greatly overestimate my role in the government,” he replied.

“No, you are just being modest, Baron,” Geneviève insisted. “My brother, the major,” she added, “was telling me how you are known to have the minister’s ear on—”

Masson, who seemed decidedly embarrassed by this line of talk, cut her off. “No, really, Madame. With all due respect, your brother knows little of the inner workings of the quai d’Orsay. I am a bit player; it’s very flattering when I am called on to consult the minister on a few of my special areas, our relations with Russia,” he said. “But the government is really only interested in the German question.”

Masson clearly wanted to change the subject, and Dubon suspected
Geneviève, for all that she seemed eager to flatter the man, had hit a sore point. His career must be stalled.

The conversation moved on and settled on what was, it seemed to Dubon, the increasingly inevitable topic in the capital these days: the certain guilt of the inmate of Devil’s Island. It was Jean-Jean who launched into a rather pompous explanation of the rightness of military justice. Geneviève kept blinking her eyes at her brother to catch his attention, and tilting her head in André’s direction to indicate she did not consider this a suitable topic to be discussing in front of a child.

Suave as always, Masson eased the conversation along, asking Dubon if he had been following the case in the papers. Dubon, who had barely had time to read a newspaper all week, could honestly confess he had not.

“The family maintains the man is innocent,” Masson said dismissively. “The brother actually gave an interview this week to that effect. With
La Presse
. Appeared with the wife, all injured innocence. The woman insists on wearing only black.” Masson all but snickered.

“Black?” Dubon asked.

“Yes, as though she were a widow, don’t you see, in mourning for her lost husband.”

Dubon stared down at his plate, wondering how he could have been such a fool.

It probably would have been an awkward meeting anyway. After their kiss on Thursday, they would have been circling each other with embarrassment, simultaneously wanting the conversation to turn intimate yet knowing they should not go down that road. Now, instead of feeling embarrassed, he was angry, more probably because he felt stupid than because she had really practiced some great deception. After all, he had been suspicious of her story about her friend and had noticed she seemed unemotional about her supposed bereavement. He should have seen right through it; Maître Gaillard’s practice used to receive numerous clients whose initial approach concerned “a friend.” Perhaps he hadn’t come to the obvious conclusion about her real identity because he didn’t want to; he enjoyed her present identity too much, her energy, her intelligence, her sense of fun. And the mission she had given him. For all its perils, he felt excited about work for the first time in years. He knew it was inappropriate, dangerous even, but he had wanted her, had fantasized that as soon as he managed to pull a rabbit out of a hat in the Statistical Section and she had paid his bill …

“I think, Madame, we had better put an end to this charade,” he said sternly, dragging his thoughts back to the present.

“Charade?” She looked puzzled.

“Really, Madame Dreyfus. I think it would have been easier if you had told me from the start whom I was representing and the family’s real position on the case.”

She appeared shocked and at first just looked down at her hands.

“Oh, I see. Yes, I see. I am sorry,” she finally said without glancing up. “I should have been direct with you. How did you conclude—?”

“You are described in the newspapers, Madame. The loyal wife who dresses as a widow.”

“Oh, of course. That interview …”

“Madame, I don’t see how I can be of much use to you. The captain’s lawyers—”

“Maître. I may not have been honest about my identity, but I have not misrepresented the situation. I do not agree with the approach the captain’s brother is taking; it is not yielding results. You must understand it is very important not to show any chink in the family’s armor. So, I approached you privately, hoping you might succeed where others have failed. Maître Dubon, who else would have done what you have done this week? Who would have dared?”

She stared at him now, silently willing him to agree. Her expectant face seemed so familiar to him. Once word had got out that the lawyer was defending the Communards, Maître Gaillard’s office had been swamped with pleading women. Their husbands were in jail or in exile; their sons could not pursue their trades because they had been labeled as sympathizers. It was Dubon’s own idea to sign them all up; file every petition, appeal every conviction, grieve every outrage, swamp the ministry with paper—and ultimately the bureaucrats would have to realize there was something in the radicals’ idea of an amnesty. He had left the firm in 1883, eleven months before the Socialists had taken office and finally passed the amnesty into law, but grateful clients remembered him to this day. He had helped get them justice. He would do the same for the captain’s wife.