A Man in Uniform (38 page)

“Yes. Maître, do go on.”

“The spy, the man who wrote the bordereau providing the Germans with French military documents, is a staff officer by the name of Major Esterhazy. He also goes by a title, although I believe he has no particular right to it. He is known as the Count Walsin-Esterhazy.”

“And who is he?”

“A man of some notoriety,” Dubon said, and proceeded to relay Le Goff’s description of Esterhazy’s personality.

“He has motive, then?”

“Yes. Probably debt.”

“Still, it is shocking, is it not, Maître, that an officer would betray his country?”

“The man’s clearly a scoundrel, Madame.”

“They should have suspected him from the first.”

“Perhaps, Madame. I don’t wish to defend the military, but because the original list included an artillery manual and information about a new gun, those who investigated it assumed the culprit was an artillery officer. They were looking in the wrong place, as it turns out.”

“And do you have proof that this Esterhazy is the right man?”

“Yes, Madame. There is a stockbroker named Castro—I will give you his particulars—who is ready to swear that the handwriting on the bordereau is that of his client, Major Esterhazy. The man is a speculator, an unsuccessful one. He owes Castro money.”

“More motive, Maître. This is excellent; I can pass on this information to the captain’s brother. Perhaps we will not even need to appeal; surely once the army knows who the real culprit is, they will simply release the captain.”

“Certainly that is how it should be, Madame. Unfortunately, I increasingly believe the army will go to some lengths to avoid admitting the mistake. You need to tell the captain’s brother that his lawyers must continue to pursue their fight with vigor; the name of the real culprit will fortify his claim.”

She sighed and looked down at her hands without speaking.

“I know it is not fair, Madame …”

“Nothing has been fair about this from the start. I get my hopes up, that we will see justice, but it is so slow coming.”

“The press may prove more of a friend in this regard than the military.”

“The press? Maître, do you not read what they write in the papers? It’s foul; I have to turn my head every time I pass a newsstand.”

“Most of the press, yes. But there are papers, like
La Presse
, that doubt the captain’s guilt. I think once Esterhazy’s name becomes public—it is my hope
La Presse
will publish it tomorrow—you will find your case taken up by certain journalists. The court of public opinion is a powerful one, Madame.”

“We’ll see. Nonetheless, I am very grateful to you. You have done all I asked.”

“I will write up a report for you; the captain’s lawyers will surely find it useful in pursuing the appeal. In the meantime, you can pass on Esterhazy’s name to them immediately, and see where they get with
that. It will take me a few days to get my report ready; perhaps we can meet again next week. Indeed, I was hoping you would do me the honor of dining with me, to toast our success.” Her husband would not be back for months; there was nothing to prevent him from at least enjoying a meal with her.

“Dining?”

“Yes, Madame. I know a very pleasant restaurant near here …”

“Dinner in a restaurant! Goodness, I don’t know how long it has been …”

“Could we say Saturday evening?” he asked, picking a day when he would not be depriving himself of Madeleine’s company at the beginning of the evening.

“Yes, dinner in a restaurant,” the captain’s wife agreed. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I, for once?”

Dubon got home early, since Friday was one of the days Madeleine had said she was busy, but Geneviève and André were not about. He poured himself an aperitif and sank into his armchair. He was not entirely satisfied with the resolution of this business; he had little faith that the military would actually pursue Esterhazy, but he had performed his client’s commission faithfully and rapidly and certainly surpassed his own expectations in that regard. He was greatly relieved to be out of the Statistical Section, and if justice for the captain might still be a long way off, let some more prominent lawyer fight for it, a social activist like Déon or one of the great minds in criminal law. Dubon was finished playing detective.

He picked up the newspaper and, purposely avoiding the story on the captain that now seemed a daily feature of the front page, turned to the sporting news. He was just reading an article about the latest in bicycle racing when Jean-Jean appeared in the doorway.

“All packed?”

“Yes. I am ready. I have something to give you, Dubon.”

“Ah.” Dubon held out his hand to accept the large envelope Jean-Jean placed in it.

“What is it?”

“My will.”

“Oh yes, well, I suppose that is sensible under the circumstances. Algeria is a long way off and all … Is it a new will?”

“No, it’s the one you drafted, after my father died. Same one.”

“Fine, fine. I do believe I have a copy at the office, but good to have another one.”

“There are some other papers in there, Dubon. Important papers. I entrust them to you, in case anything happens to me.” He stared down at Dubon with solemnity. Really, Jean-Jean did dramatize his own importance sometimes.

“Right, of course,” Dubon said, rising to his feet reluctantly. He supposed he was required to tuck the envelope away in the desk in his study now. “I’m sure you’ll be home again in a year, safe with us.”

“Just in case, Dubon, just in case.”

By Monday
La Presse
still had not published Esterhazy’s name, but Dubon thought little of it until he returned to the office after lunch to find a disgruntled Le Goff waiting for him.

“They won’t print anything more,” Le Goff said, as soon as Lebrun had shut the door behind him. “The readers know that the captain is guilty and don’t want to hear otherwise. Ten thousand of them have canceled their subscriptions. Imagine, Dubon, the power I have. I have unsettled ten thousand people, introduced a tiny shadow of doubt into their self-righteous conviction that when looking for a traitor one need look no further than the Jew.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Not much I can do. Chalon was very sympathetic. He knows where the truth lies. He’s not going to cut me off altogether. He’ll take my articles on other subjects, but nothing on Dreyfus.”

“And what about Esterhazy? How do we get his name into print?”

“Take it to Clemenceau, I guess.”

“Clemenceau, at
L’Aurore
?”

“Waging a campaign, from what I read. He’ll print anything.”

“Well, it’s your article. Why don’t you take it to him?”

“Because he’s the competition.
La Presse
is still paying me for a weekly column on other military affairs; I don’t want to lose that income.”

“You could let Clemenceau have it under another pseudonym.”

“Chalon would know.”

“So, in the end, nobody is willing to take the loss.”

“That’s not fair, Dubon. I am one man. What can I do?”

“I don’t know, Le Goff. I don’t know. But I guess at least I can go to Clemenceau and tell him about Castro.”

After Le Goff left, Dubon kept working away on the mass of paper that had accumulated on his desk, but he gave up at five o’clock to turn to a different assignment. To his surprise, Lebrun had come to him that morning and asked for a letter of reference.

“You are leaving me, Lebrun? Are you not happy? I had no idea—”

“No, no, Maître. It is not like that; let me explain. The letter is for my application.”

“Your application?”

“Yes. I am applying to the faculty of law for the fall term.”

“You are applying to the university? Lebrun, really, do you think—?”

“I had excellent marks at the lycée, Maître.”

“But that was some years ago, Lebrun. I mean, if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“I’m thirty-four, Maître. Not so old I cannot consider a change.”

“Still, Lebrun. I mean. It’s very hard work, the law, very demanding; the course of training is long, arduous … a young man with a certain, well, a certain background, such a young man might consider … How will you be able to keep yourself while you are studying, if I may ask?”

“I have been saving. I have enough.”

“That’s very good, Lebrun. Very forward looking of you. You just want to be sure that the law suits you. That you are not wasting your savings or your time.”

“Maître, I have just run your office for the better part of a month. I am well aware what the law entails.”

“That’s true. That’s true,” Dubon conceded. “Still, it also requires family support. That’s really very important; especially when it comes time to set up a practice, one needs the kind of family—” Dubon heard what he was saying and pulled himself up short. He had the right family. He had inherited his father’s practice and improved it with Geneviève’s father’s money. He had never been independent; he had abandoned a crusade for justice so that he could marry and live well. If Lebrun were to succeed in getting through law school on his own money, he already would have achieved more than Dubon ever had.

“I will support you,” he said to his clerk. “Tell me what kind of letter you need.”

It was six thirty before he finished the letter and started for home, but he had no reason to leave the office earlier because Madeleine was not free that evening. He entered the front hall of the apartment to find Geneviève readying herself and André to go out.

“Where have you been?” she asked coolly.

“I was at the office.”

“You forgot we were having dinner early. I did mention it to you at lunch. I’m taking André to a concert.” She paused. There was only so far she would go in the presence of their son. “You had assured me that at the very least your lateness was going to stop.”

“Oh yes. I am sorry. I …” Dubon paused, realizing that lying to his wife had become something of a habit but that there was no reason he should not tell her of this particular development. “I was busy writing a letter for Lebrun. It’s the most amazing thing. He has decided to apply to the faculty of law.”

“Silly man. He’s far too old. André, pass me my gloves, will you, dear? You’ll go to law school, darling. Unless you want to follow your grandfather and your uncles and go into the army. You’ll have to start thinking about it soon, eh?”

“Law school,” André replied emphatically. “More interesting.”

Dubon beamed at his son—he had never expressed any enthusiasm for law before—as the boy turned to fetch Geneviève a pair of black gloves that were sitting on the credenza.

“Not those, dear. Look at me. Do I look like someone who is about to put on a pair of black gloves?” She laughed, indicating her skirt and matching jacket, which were a rich shade of navy blue. André clearly did not know what his mother was talking about, so Dubon reached for the blue gloves that were also sitting there and passed them over. Mother and son set off, leaving Dubon standing in the middle of the hall staring blindly at the door that had just closed after them. He stood there for a long moment without moving before Luc appeared.