A Man in Uniform (5 page)

“The general doesn’t want to hear about your mad schemes, and neither do we. Tell Dubon something funny. He was forced to dance with Madame Verry and must be in dire need of some entertainment.”

“But really, it can be done.” Jean-Jean, not a man well equipped to produce jokes on demand, was not to be dissuaded from his original topic. “Major, at the very least you must care about the recoil because it frightens the horses. The last time I was on maneuvers—”

“Captain,” his brother interrupted, for in public the family was in the habit of addressing one another by their military titles. “Really, if your idea is so clever, why are you parading it about at a party? Do you want those spies over there to hear you?” The major cocked his head toward a pair of dandies who had positioned themselves at the edge of the dance floor.

“Spies!” Jean-Jean was appalled. “How do you know they are spies?”

“Well, that’s Schwarzkoppen from the German embassy and that’s Panizzardi from the Italian. They are busy spying for their countries; that’s what they do.”

“But, Major, you must warn our host—”

“Jean-Jean.” His older brother smiled indulgently. “General Fiteau
invited
them. He knows they are spies. Everybody does. All the military attachés at the embassies are spies, but one can’t very well cut off relations with the foreign powers. Goodness, even an old cavalry officer like me knows how the system works.”

“But this is an outrage,” Jean-Jean persisted. “I assumed we were among friends.”

“Oh, we are among friends all right—just don’t go discussing state
secrets with them, any more than you would go discuss them with your wife. Well, if you had a wife, that is.” The major was always ready to poke fun at his brother’s bachelor status. Now, to demonstrate how chummy everyone was, he called out.

“Schwarzkoppen. Come and meet my brothers; bring your Italian friend with you.”

A rather sleek and self-satisfied-looking man began moving toward them, followed by a second, less commanding person. Dubon suddenly found Masson’s tall figure at his elbow, quietly insinuating himself into the group.

“Dubon, I don’t believe you have met Colonel Schwarzkoppen, nor Major Panizzardi,” the major began. “My brother-in-law, Dubon. A lawyer, but we won’t hold that against him. This is my brother, Captain de Ronchaud Valcourt. And the Baron de Masson,” he added.

“Nice to meet you, Monsieur Dubon, Captain,” said the taller of the two foreigners, as he and the Italian each shook hands with Dubon and Jean-Jean. They simply nodded in Masson’s direction; apparently they knew him already.

“The colonel is with the German embassy, the military attaché,” the major continued, leaning in toward Jean-Jean, feigning a conspiratorial whisper and repeating his previous accusation. “That means he’s a spy, Captain.”

Jean-Jean glared at his brother but said nothing.

“Ah, Major, if I were a spy, I would have succeeded in discovering where it is you have moved your little card parties,” the German said. “I haven’t seen you since the autumn.”

“Oh, sh, Colonel. Not in front of my brother-in-law. He’ll have my sister after me. Nothing wrong with a little gaming between gentlemen, but if Geneviève were to find out, she’d be horrified. Since our parents’ deaths, she does like to play mother hen.”

The major emitted a braying laugh and Dubon said nothing. The major’s disapproving family already knew of his habit, but thus far his wagers were never so extravagant that he had gotten into serious trouble.

“I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Madame Dubon, but I hear she is charming.” Schwarzkoppen bowed slightly as he addressed
Dubon, who wasn’t certain he really wanted to introduce this handsome character to his wife.

“She’s still busy on the dance floor, and she has promised me the first waltz,” Dubon responded.

The major chuckled. “Schwarzkoppen, no man wants to introduce you to his wife. Your reputation as a lady’s man precedes you.”

Schwarzkoppen and the major now turned to an enthusiastic discussion of their best bets for opening day at the Longchamp racecourse that Sunday while Dubon and the Italian mainly listened.

When the orchestra struck up a waltz, Dubon excused himself. “I must find my wife. It’s a little tradition we have—a waltz.”

He found Geneviève waiting for him at the edge of the dance floor. He slid his arms around her waist and drew her to him. Sniffing her familiar perfume, he felt, for the first time that evening, rather peaceful. These dances were a touch of romance remaining in their otherwise practical union. Giddy with love and nerves, he had proposed to her in the middle of a waltz at just such a military ball eighteen years before. She had been something of a rebel in those days: a few months previously, she had rejected the young officer whom her parents had in mind. Dubon had felt it an enormous victory when he gained first her father’s permission and then Geneviève’s own consent.

“Lovely party,” Geneviève said as they moved across the floor. “Madame Fiteau always does the most wonderful job of her ball.”

“Mmm,” Dubon agreed without speaking, content to let the music, laughter, and snatches of other people’s conversations flow over him.

“
No, not until next year. It’s been postponed again …
”

“
I haven’t been able to find her all evening …
”

“
Well, they can hardly accuse the Republicans …
”

And then, muffled but still loud enough to be recognizable for what it was, came the sound of a gunshot. The little door in the paneling through which the young Louis Fiteau had stuck out his head a few dances ago swung open. There was a thud as his body fell to the floor of the salon, landing heavily a few feet from the entrance to the ballroom. His hand was still clasped around the pistol with which he had just shot himself: a scarlet blotch appeared at his temple where the blood was seeping into his ginger-colored hair. A stooped fellow in an
oversized uniform emerged more slowly from the same doorway. His face was partly hidden by a walrus mustache, but what could be seen looked ghostly. Dubon realized he was the same officer who had been at Louis Fiteau’s side earlier in the evening, waiting for the awkward young man when his mother dismissed him.

“My God, I thought he was joking,” the officer said as he began elbowing his way through the stunned crowd.

The general promptly put his military training to use. Within moments, he had cleared the salon and positioned a line of men, most of them young officers, across the archway, barricading his son’s body from view. He looked up and caught Masson’s eye. Dubon, standing stock-still with Geneviève still in his arms, instantly understood and began shepherding his wife and any other lady in his path down the ballroom, away from the salon and toward the main door that led to the hall. Masson was doing the same, having already forestalled Madame Fiteau, who had not yet seen her son’s body, from coming any farther in that direction.

“Unfortunate accident … Nothing to do but remain calm … Best just to leave it to the general … Let’s all move out to the hall …”

The cry had gone out for a doctor and as the crowd shuffled somewhat reluctantly away from the scene, a gray-haired man whom Dubon recognized as Geneviève’s obstetrician came pushing by them. Even if he were the finest surgeon in France, Dubon doubted he was going to be of much use.

Once in the hall, the crowd moved with some relief across to the
supper room, where people milled about asking one another what they should do. Dubon noted neither Masson nor Madame Fiteau was present. Wisely, the man must have got his hostess off into some private room. She was in for a shock.

They waited for about ten minutes before the general came into the room and spoke. His voice, normally booming, was a low monotone and would have been difficult to hear had a hush not descended: “There has been an accident with a gun. We have called the police. If you would all be so good as to remain here for a little while yet …”

There were solemn murmurs of assent and the general disappeared again. A few people now helped themselves to the glasses of champagne that had been poured earlier, ready for the guests, while others began surreptitiously selecting any food they could easily pop into their mouths, picking at the grapes on the pyramids of fruit at either end of the table or sampling the petits fours. The waiters who had stood idle when the crowd entered, unsure what role they should play, now began to replenish glasses. Soon the crowd was eating and talking quietly as the guests moved about speculating with one another on the young man’s condition.

The ladies either did not understand or did not wish to understand what had transpired.

“Some kind of horrible accident …”

“I do hope he’s all right.”

“Poor Marthe. Her youngest.”

The men, meanwhile, would avoid one another’s glances. They could only guess there had been some kind of card game going on behind the little door, and that young Louis Fiteau had been losing heavily again.

After an hour or so, two uniformed officers entered the room briskly, commanding the crowd’s instant attention. One stepped forward and introduced himself as Major Robin, and Dubon realized the general had called the military police.

“I am very sorry to have to tell you all … to announce to you … there has been an accident.” There was a little cry around the room as he found the words: “Monsieur Louis Fiteau is dead.”

The death threw Geneviève into a social quandary.

“How is one to write a letter of condolence?” she asked Dubon at lunch the next day as she speculated, correctly as it turned out, that there would not be a public funeral. “They will be very lucky if they can get a priest to bury him.”

“It’s appalling, Geneviève,” Dubon found himself replying with some heat, irritated by her concern over the niceties of the situation. “Just go over to the Fiteaus’ and comfort the poor woman …”

“Really, the next day. It’s far too early.”

“We can’t let them think they have been shamed.”

“But they
have
been shamed. I mean, he could hardly have chosen a worse moment, right in the middle of his parents’ spring ball.”

“I don’t suppose he planned it that way.”

“I don’t know about that. Perhaps he did, to get back at them.”

“Why get back at them?”

“Well …”

“Geneviève …” Dubon was as much amused as exasperated. “You have already managed to obtain some gossip. What is it you know?”

“Last night I was speaking to—”

“I was with you the whole time after it happened.”

“Not when you were getting our coats.”

“So, while I was gone …”

“I was just speaking to the major.”

“And what did your brother say?”

“That the young man had debts, heavy debts, and that the general was refusing to pay.”

“What did the major think about that?”

“You mean did he think it wrong for a father to cut off a son like that?” Geneviève asked pointedly.

“Your father—”

“It never came to that with my brother,” she said sharply.

“Did you tell him you hoped he learned a lesson?” Dubon persisted, sure his wife could hardly have resisted the opportunity.

“Oh, goodness, François, with the poor soul’s body still lying on the floor? I didn’t have the heart to say a thing.”

Dubon returned to the office after lunch and tried not to think about Louis Fiteau as he sorted through his papers. He could not banish the image of the young man’s body sprawled out on the floor, however, and he wondered what he would feel if it had been his son lying there. His fatherly affection, often masked by routine or overshadowed by Geneviève’s mothering, rose up in his throat as he thought to himself: My God, what if André got into some kind of trouble … He shook his head as if to clear it and tried to concentrate on the contract in front of him.

At about four, Roberge blew the whistle on the speaking tube and announced, “That lady’s back,” before slamming the thing down with a vigor that reverberated in Dubon’s ear.

Sighing at the man’s lack of grace, Dubon stood up and opened the door to find the widow standing there staring up at him. He blinked and stood aside for her to pass, feeling her skirts brush gently against his leg as she did so. He had meant to think that morning of another lawyer to whom he could refer her case, but his mind had been occupied with Fiteau’s suicide. She was carrying a large envelope, which she handed to him without comment and then stood back waiting for his reaction, biting her lower lip with a set of fine, white teeth, like some child in front of a teacher. She was still dressed sedately in black but had permitted herself a little white lace collar that added to the girlish effect.