A Man in Uniform (36 page)

“She doesn’t want me to discuss the Dreyfus case with you—or anyone else.”

“Oh. Why not? Anything new?”

“This.” Dubon handed him
La Presse
, despite a glare from his wife.

Jean-Jean began to read intently, barely glancing up as Luc poured him coffee.

After a while, he looked back at Dubon.

“This is the evidence?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh” was all Jean-Jean replied, before putting his head back down. He frowned and sighed as he read but said nothing more.

Geneviève decided it was best to ignore the situation, and, after announcing she had letters to write, left the room, while Dubon set out on his walk to the office, wondering when it was that Jean-Jean had become so interested in Dreyfus.

There was no word from Le Goff and after a day spent catching up on other business, Dubon returned to find that Jean-Jean was still sitting at the dining room table as though he hadn’t moved all day. He was just passing by the room on his way to his study to get a book when he noticed his brother-in-law and stopped in, thinking it a rather odd place for him to be stationed.

“You look like you haven’t moved since breakfast.”

“What? Oh. No, I went out for a bit this morning, I think. Yes, this morning, after breakfast. Or maybe it was after lunch.”

“Didn’t you have to stop in at headquarters today?”

“I am supposed to go in tomorrow, I think. Tuesday. Tomorrow’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s Wednesday I go in. Wednesday would be better.” He sounded confused and looked unpleasantly pale.

“Why don’t you come out of the dining room, Jean-Jean,” Dubon said gently. “Luc needs to get in to set the table for dinner. Geneviève must be in the salon by now. Come and keep us company.”

“I guess I’ll just go to my room for a while.”

“We’ll call you for dinner. You’ll want dinner? You aren’t feeling sick, are you?”

“No, no. I’m not sick,” Jean-Jean said in the same vacant tone. “At least, no more so than everyone else in the world.”

Dubon puzzled over this new philosophical streak as he followed Jean-Jean to his study to get his book. He then left his distracted brother-in-law and went to find Geneviève.

“What on earth is wrong with your brother?”

“I have no idea; I haven’t seen him all day. Is he home now?”

“Yes, I found him in the dining room, just staring into space. He seems completely distracted.”

“Well, I imagine he’s worried about this new assignment, whatever it is. All rather hush-hush. I do hope it’s something good. He has certainly earned a promotion.”

“Hmm, no doubt.” Dubon sounded unconvinced, and Geneviève, on the alert for perceived slights to her family since their recent disagreements, persisted.

“He does deserve a great career, you know. He is really clever about artillery and he should be allowed to use his talents. Because he is shy, people underestimate him. He looks up to you, you know, thinks you are a man of the world, but you never take him seriously.”

“I don’t know if that’s fair, dear. I am fond of him and, of course, he’s highly intelligent in his way,” Dubon responded. “It’s just that he can be so awkward sometimes. The state he is in currently, you are going to have to remind him when it’s Wednesday.”

“Fine,” Geneviève replied curtly. “I will remind him to go to his meeting. He may be upset about his new assignment, but at least I can trust
he
isn’t up to something silly.”

Dubon bit his lip and said nothing.

By the following day, however, Jean-Jean’s absentmindedness seemed to have cleared and he appeared for all three meals, although he remained monosyllabic.

The bordereau was the talk of the town, but there was no word from any quarter as to who its author might be. Le Goff sent a telegram to Dubon’s office and it said only, “Powerful reaction to your best work. No further news at present.”

That afternoon, Dubon approached Madeleine’s door with an unusual sense of trepidation. It had been a week since he had walked away and, distracted by developments in the Statistical Section, he had waited several days before sending a bouquet to her address with the suggestion he return that Tuesday. Though he had never had a disagreement with Madeleine before, his experience with Geneviève had taught him it was best not to dwell on who was in the wrong but simply to express regret and move on. Madeleine had replied by telegram that she looked forward to his visit, but she was uncharacteristically subdued when she answered his knock.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she said without much enthusiasm, gesturing toward a bouquet of red roses sitting on a small table.

“You are very welcome.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Please.”

She pulled out one of the bottles he kept there and watched while he uncorked it.

Their conversation proceeded in this stilted manner as though they were newly introduced strangers trying to find something to say, but when they moved to the bedroom, their new tentativeness struck Dubon as touching. As he rose from her bed, he leaned over and gently ran his hand down her cheek.

“Shall I come again tomorrow?” he asked.

“If you like.”

“I finished my undercover assignment, so no more disruptions.”

“You will be here every day?”

He had thought she would welcome the news, but her tone sounded anxious.

“Does that not suit you?”

“I have an engagement Friday.”

“Really, with whom?”

“With Claudine. I thought I was safe to see her Friday afternoon.”

“Of course, of course, my dear. You make whatever arrangements you like. I’ll come again tomorrow and Thursday, then. And perhaps I’ll even manage Saturday this week. You’ll be home in the morning?”

“Yes, Saturday is fine, just not Friday. And not next Monday, I don’t think. I have made some plans …”

“So, let me get this straight. You will be at home Thursday and Saturday, but not Friday or Monday.” Dubon’s tone was slightly arch—he was still footing the bill, after all—but his heart sank. Clearly, his fears about some handsome young man were not out of place.

Wednesday brought more developments in the press and Dubon came in to breakfast to find Geneviève looking triumphant.

“Read this,” she said, holding out her newspaper.

Dubon began reading. Increasingly, questions were being asked in the National Assembly about the Dreyfus case, and on Tuesday the minister of war, Godefroy Cavaignac, had risen to reply to them, affirming the government’s position that the captain was rightly condemned. He cited overwhelming proof, including a letter that he read out to the deputies in which a foreign diplomat, whom he carefully did not name, warned a colleague that no one must know of their contacts with Dreyfus. It was the Italian’s letter, Dubon thought. Cavaignac stood by this evidence and the assembly voted overwhelming in favor of his right as a deputy to
affichage:
his speech was to be posted in every commune in the country.

Dubon nearly laughed out loud. So that was why Picquart had been banished so swiftly. The rue Saint-Dominique had already passed
on the Italian letter to their minister and weren’t going to have anyone question its authenticity. Now, in his ignorance, Cavaignac had made public a document that Dubon could show was a forgery. The case against Dreyfus was doomed. What would happen to Major Henry when his superiors realized their loyal soldier had exposed them to accusations of fraud?

He smiled as he put down the paper. Geneviève glared back at him, expecting more contrition on his part, but instead Dubon said, “Dreyfus has won, my dear. He’s won.”

“We’ve got him!”

It was Le Goff, bursting into Dubon’s office on Friday morning.

“You can come with me. He can see us this morning; he’s at his office now.”

Dubon had yet to see Le Goff so gleeful about the case.

“Who are you talking about?”

“A stockbroker by the name of Castro.”

“He’s the spy?”

“No, no. He has identified the handwriting. Belongs to a client of his. He sent the paper a message yesterday. He said he would be in his office this morning and was happy to speak with a correspondent from
La Presse
. We have to go now, Dubon; we don’t want to miss him.”

Le Goff, he noticed, was in civilian dress.

“You’ll be posing as a journalist?”

“I will be myself, Azimut Martin,” he said with gusto. “You can be a news photographer.”

“I don’t have a camera.”

“You won’t need one. He’s not going to want his picture taken.”

“What newspaper photographer would go out without a camera?”

“Can’t you just bring some old suitcase or something and pretend it’s got your camera in it?” Le Goff replied, looking about the room.

“No. What if he agrees to a photo—
the man who identified the spy!
—he might want the publicity. We’d better stop at the paper and see if your photographer can lend me his kit again.”

“All right, but hurry up.”

They took a cab back to
La Presse
and while Le Goff paid the driver off and waited in the street, Dubon went inside and found the same photographer poking away in his darkroom. The fellow agreed to the loan without hesitation; he had been impressed by the reaction the previous assignment had garnered.

“More documents?”

“Maybe a person,” Dubon replied.

“Trickier, trickier. People move, you know,” the photographer said, and he proceeded to issue a few pointers.