Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

Desvernine reaches out his hand to the swollen neck and feels for a pulse, then squats on his haunches and quickly frisks the corpse.

I say, ‘When did you last speak to him?’

‘This morning. He was standing at this very window, as alive as you are now.’

‘Was he depressed? Suicidal?’

‘No, just frightened.’

‘How long has he been dead?’

‘He’s cold, but no stiffness yet — two hours; perhaps three.’

He straightens and goes over to the bed. A suitcase lies open. He turns it upside down and shakes out the contents, then sifts through the pathetic little heap of belongings, extracting pens, nibs, pencils, bottles of ink. A tweed jacket hangs on the back of a chair. He tugs a note case from the inside pocket and flips through it, then checks the side pockets: coins in one, the room key in the other.

I watch him. ‘No note?’

‘No paper of any sort. Curious for a forger, wouldn’t you say?’ He puts everything back in the suitcase. Then he lifts the mattress and pats underneath it, opens the drawer of the nightstand, looks in the shabby cupboard, rolls back the square of matting. Finally he stands defeated with his hands on his hips. ‘It’s all been gone through thoroughly. They haven’t left a scrap. You should go now, Colonel. The last thing you need is to be caught in a room with a corpse — especially this one.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll lock the door and leave everything as we found it. Maybe wait around outside for an hour or two, see who shows up.’ He gazes at the corpse. ‘This’ll be booked straight through as a suicide — just you wait — and you won’t find a policeman or a crook in Paris who’ll say anything different, the poor bastard.’ He passes his hand tenderly across the contorted face and closes the staring eyes.

The next day two colonels turn up at my apartment: Parès and Boissonnet, both noted sportsmen and old drinking companions of Henry’s. They inform me grandly that Colonel Henry refuses to fight me on the grounds that I, as a cashiered officer, am a ‘disreputable person’, with no honour to lose: therefore there can have been no insult.

Parès gives me a look of cold contempt. ‘He suggests, Monsieur Picquart, that you seek satisfaction from Major Esterhazy instead. He understands that Major Esterhazy is anxious to challenge you to a duel.’

‘No doubt he is. But you may inform Colonel Henry — and Major Esterhazy too — that I have no intention of stepping down into the gutter to fight a traitor and embezzler. Colonel Henry accused me in public of being a liar, at a time when I was still a serving officer. That is when I issued the challenge, and in those circumstances he is bound by honour to give me satisfaction. If he refuses to do so, the world will note the fact and draw the obvious conclusion: that he is both a slanderer and a coward. Good day, gentlemen.’

After I close the door on them I realise I am trembling, whether from nerves or fury I cannot tell.

Later that night Edmond comes round with the news that Henry has decided to accept my challenge after all. The duel will take place the day after tomorrow, at ten thirty in the morning, at the indoor riding school of the École Militaire. The weapons will be swords. Edmond says, ‘Henry will automatically have an army surgeon in attendance. We need to nominate a doctor of our own to accompany us. Is there anyone you would prefer?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’ll find someone. Now pack a bag.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have my carriage outside and you’re coming home to practise fencing with me. I don’t want to be a witness to your being killed.’

I debate whether or not to tell him about Lemercier-Picard and decide against it: he is anxious enough as it is.

Friday is passed in Edmond’s barn, where he puts me through my paces for hour after hour, relearning the basic principles of compound attack and circular parry, riposte and remise. The next morning, we leave Ville-d’Avray soon after nine to drive back into Paris. Jeanne kisses me fervently all over my face as if she doesn’t expect to see me again. ‘Goodbye, dearest Georges! I shall never forget you. Farewell!’

‘My dear Jeanne, this is not good for my morale. .’

An hour later we turn into the avenue de Lowendal to find a crowd of several hundred waiting outside the entrance to the riding school, many of them cadets from the École Militaire — the sort of young men I used to teach but who now jeer me as I emerge from the carriage in my civilian clothes. A line of troopers guards the door. Edmond knocks, a bolt is drawn and we are admitted into that familiar grey-lit chilly space, with its stink of horse shit, ammonia and straw. Trapped birds beat their wings against the skylights. A trestle table has been set up in the middle of the vast manège against which Arthur Ranc rests his bulky frame. He comes over to me with his hand outstretched. He may be nearer seventy than sixty but his beard is full and black and the eyes behind his pince-nez are bright with interest. ‘I’ve fought plenty of duels in my time, my dear fellow,’ he says, ‘and the thing to remember is that two hours from now you’ll be sitting down to lunch with the keenest appetite you’ll ever enjoy in your life. It’s worth the fight just for the pleasure of the meal!’

I am introduced to the adjudicator, a retired sergeant major of the Republican Guard, and to my doctor, a hospital surgeon. We wait for fifteen minutes, our conversation becoming increasingly strained, until a burst of cheering from the street signals the arrival of Henry. He enters followed by the two colonels, ignores us and strides directly to the table, pulling off his gloves. Then he removes his cap and sets it down and begins unbuttoning his tunic, as if preparing for a medical procedure he is anxious to get over with as quickly as possible. I take off my own jacket and waistcoat and hand them to Edmond. The adjudicator chalks a thick line in the centre of the stone floor, paces off a position to either side of it and marks each with a cross, then summons us over to him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘if you please, unbutton your shirts,’ and we expose our chests briefly to prove we are wearing no protection; Henry’s is pink and hairless, like the belly of a pig. Throughout this procedure he looks at his hands, the floor, the rafters — anywhere except at me.

Our weapons are weighed and measured. The sergeant major explains, ‘Gentlemen, if one of you is wounded, or a wound is perceived by one of your witnesses, the combat will be stopped unless the wounded man indicates he wishes to continue fighting. After the wound has been inspected, if the injured man desires, the fight may resume.’ He gives us our swords. ‘Prepare yourselves.’

I flex my knees and make a few practice thrusts and parries, then turn to face Henry, who stands about six paces away, and now at last he looks at me, and I see the hatred in his eyes. I know at once he will try to kill me if he can.

‘ En garde ,’ says the sergeant major, and we take up our positions. He checks his watch and raises his cane, then brings it down. ‘Allez!’

Henry rushes at me immediately, flashing his sword with such speed and force that mine is almost knocked from my hand. I have no choice but to retreat under the flail of blows, parrying as best I can by instinct rather than method. My feet become entangled, I stumble slightly, and Henry slashes at my neck. Both Ranc and Edmond cry out in protest at such an illegal stroke. I sway backwards and feel the wall behind my shoulders. Already Henry must have driven me twenty paces from my marker and I have to duck and twist away from him, darting to the side and taking up a fresh defensive posture, yet still he comes on.