A Man in Uniform Read Free

cold, don’t you find?” Dubon asked. “Almost unseasonably so. I always enjoy the spring, but here we are in mid-April and we are still bundled up in our winter clothes. If I may be honest, Madame, I would myself not say no to a ray or two of sunlight.”
    “Oh yes, a ray of sunlight …”
    Her voice trailed off and she appeared puzzled, as though unsure why they were discussing the weather. She held his gaze now, and again her eyes arrested him. They darted and glittered. This time he was not imagining it: there was some humor there behind her evident grief. Indeed, she almost laughed, emitting a little sound that ended in a gulp.
    “Oh, Monsieur, I suppose you want me to state my business.”
    “Whenever you wish, Madame. I am in no hurry.”
    And indeed, Dubon, who but moments before had felt annoyed at the interruption keeping him from Madeleine, was now happy to linger. She seemed hesitant, as though sensing there was specific etiquetteto be employed when visiting a lawyer’s office but ignorant of what it might be. Dubon found the effect charming.
    She drew a long breath and shifted in the chair. “Maître. They do call you Maître, I suppose …”
    “Oh yes, indeed. Lebrun, my clerk, always insists on introducing me that way to clients. That wasn’t him who let you in. That was Roberge; he’s just temporary. He calls me Maître too. My friends, on the other hand—”
    She interrupted him here. “That’s fine. I will call you Maître. And,” she added, her tone serious now, “I will tell you my business.”
    “By all means, do go ahead.”
    “I come to you on behalf of a friend of mine …” Some skepticism must have shown in his face for she repeated it. “Yes, a dear friend of mine. She is in serious trouble but cannot risk coming to see you herself. Indeed, she does not know that I am here, only that I said I would try to make some inquiries as to what might be done to save her husband.”
    “Save her husband? What ails him, Madame?”
    “Nothing that true justice could not cure, Monsieur.”
    “Well, Madame Duhamel. I am not sure you have come to the right place. A lawyer will get you the best justice he can, but as to whether that constitutes true justice …”
    “Maître, please. Your reputation precedes you. Your work on the—”
    “No, no, Madame, please, that is not necessary.” Dubon did not want to hear her fabricate some tribute to his supposed credentials by dragging up his minor role in events now long past. He could only suppose someone had told her that his services came cheap by the standards of the rue Saint-Honoré. God only knew what a client might be asked to pay the society lawyer de Marigny, whose offices were across the street, or the much-praised Socialist, Déon, who was just one floor up and always willing to take on a high-profile cause.
    “Please, do continue. Tell me about your friend’s husband.”
    “He is an army officer, Maître, a captain in the artillery.” Dubon began to guess the real reason she had come to his office; she must have learned of his family connections and judged they would be useful if her case involved the military.
    “I will come to the point. There is no way to put it gently and you have perhaps read about the case in the papers. It caused some furor at the time: about two years ago, my friend’s husband was accused of spying for the Germans. He was court-martialed, convicted, and deported to serve his sentence in cruel exile. Even now, he languishes on Devil’s Island.”
    “But, Madame, his trial is then long past. Why seek legal advice now?”
    “Because he is innocent, Monsieur.”
    “Madame, I am sure your friend is a charming person and a loyal wife—”
    “Do not patronize me, Maître,” she interrupted.
    Dubon, unaccustomed to such directness in any lady other than his wife, drew himself up and began again. “No, I would not dream of it, Madame. So naturally, your friend believes completely in her husband’s