‘No, if I never see him again it will be too soon!’ cried Netta. ‘This is all his fault ‒ he and his stupid devotion to the Dreyfus cause!’
‘Now, darling, calm down. You know you don’t mean that.’
‘I do, I do! I’ve told him and told him not to meddle in politics! After all, what have the Dreyfus family to do with us?’
‘Nothing, of course, and I’m with you on that score. I wish Phip would show some sense … But there you are, he never seems to see what’s under his nose, which is that protesting about a criminal’s sentence is likely to get him in trouble.’
‘If he got in trouble himself, I shouldn’t mind!’ Netta flashed, with much more unkindness than she really felt. ‘But why must he drag me into it? The most important day of my life ‒’
‘Oh, come now, Netta.’
‘It was, Frederic, it was! I’ve been working for it so long …’
Frederic, though not in the least sentimental, couldn’t help being a little hurt that his wife should place her debut as a singer above her wedding day and the birth of their child. But he could see she was upset and not quite responsible for what she was saying. He decided to have a very serious word with his brother-in-law when he came home.
Philip didn’t come home at all that night. Frederic thought nothing of it or, if he did, took it for granted he was staying with the little dark-haired belle amie in her apartment somewhere near Montparnasse. Netta was persuaded to take a soothing drink recommended by Monsieur Alfonsini to help her to sleep, and the big old house in Avenue d’Iena settled down to rest.
On the Monday, one or two friends from the world of music came to comfort Netta. Frederic, having business appointments, left soon after breakfast. When she asked, as an afterthought, ‘Have you seen, Phip?’ he shrugged, shook his head, and raised his eyebrows expressively.
It even brought a momentary smile of sisterly indulgence to Netta’s lips.
Philip was shown into Frederic’s office at the House of Tramont’s business premises about mid-afternoon. This in itself was unusual ‒ Philip seldom came there because he took no part in the business.
‘We-ell,’ Frederic said with heavy irony, ‘so here you are at last! I trust you had a comfortable night?’
‘Frederic,’ said Philip, ‘I’ve come to ask for your advice.’
‘About what? How to conduct your love affair? Now, now, my boy ‒ I’m a respectable married man these days, or at least that’s the impression I like to give.’
‘This is rather serious, Frederic. I’d be glad if we could discuss it without jokes.’
‘Oh? Really?’ He was taken aback at the heaviness of the tone. As a rule his brother-in-law spoke with hesitancy when he was pressing any claim for attention on his own behalf.
A dreadful thought seized Frederic. Could it be ‒ oh, wearisome prospect! ‒ that the little Hermilot was expecting a baby? If so … well, the money would be found somewhere to pay her off, but these days any additional expenditure was very unwelcome.
‘Sit down, sit down, Phip,’ he invited, gesturing at the heavy mahogany chair which stood across from his desk. ‘Shall I pour you a drink?’
Philip sat down, rather suddenly, as if his legs had all at once given way. He said, ‘I don’t want a drink ‒ I mean, not wine or brandy but I’d be glad of something to eat and a cup of coffee. I don’t believe I’ve eaten since lunchtime yesterday.’
‘Phip!’ Now Frederic was really perturbed. This was more than a hitch in a love affair. When a man forgets to eat, it’s serious.
He rang his bell, his secretary appeared. ‘Michel, ask the concierge to fetch coffee and croissants from a café ‒ and be quick about it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The young man looked with curiosity at Monsieur’s brother-in-law, who had an odd appearance ‒ pale, strained, a little dishevelled. One would almost have said he was suffering from a hangover except that Monsieur Hopetown-Tramont wasn’t the sort.
‘Now, come on, out with it,’ Frederic urged when the door closed behind Michel. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, nothing’s wrong ‒ not really, it will all sort itself out. But you see … I’m not very accustomed to this kind of thing so I need some advice.’
‘On what?’
‘I know you’ll put me right, Frederic. It’s the kind of thing you’re good at, having been a soldier and all that.’
‘What’s my military career got to do with it?’
‘Well, you’re accustomed to handling them.’
‘What, for God’s sake?’ Frederic was totally baffled.
Philip took off his glasses and began to polish them on a none too clean handkerchief.
‘Could you show me how to handle a pistol?’
For a long moment Frederic gaped at him, his black brows arched in disbelief. Then a rush of terrible thoughts: these stupid friends of Phip’s ‒ anarchists ‒ violence as a political tool ‒ assassinations …
‘Phip, what tomfool scheme have you got yourself involved in now? Because I warn you, I’m not helping you to stage an attack on some right-wing deputy.’
Philip breathed on his lenses to moisten them, polishing assiduously. ‘It’s nothing like that. I need to know because I don’t want to look a fool. I’ve got to fight a duel in the morning.’
Frederic gave a gasp, but it became a laugh. ‘Oh, Phip … You really gave me a fright about the pistol! I thought you were going to …’ The words began to die away. His brother-in-law seldom made jokes, and when he did, they were always little innocuous sallies, nothing like this mad idea. ‘Phip, you’re not in earnest.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘A duel?’
‘Yes. In the Bois tomorrow.’
‘But … but … nobody fights duels these days.’ As he said it he knew it was untrue. The code of duelling died hard. It might be against the law, classed as a criminal act like common assault, but men still met each other in the grey light of dawn on matters of honour.
It was particularly well preserved among the officers of the Army and the Navy. One of Frederic’s former classmates of St Cyr had had to retire from active service after losing an eye in a duel.
‘What happened?’
‘I went after the ringleaders of that attack on Netta’s debut,’ Philip explained. ‘Most of them were officers in mufti from the Sixth Corps stationed at Nancy, but the men who took the initiative boarded a train for Paris about nine o’clock last night. I followed them ‒ I lost them at the railway station but by that time I’d heard them calling each other by name. I started making inquiries for them as soon as it was light today ‒’
‘But why? Phip, what on earth did you think you’d achieve?’
‘I wanted to reason with them, so they’d apologise,’ Philip said, frowning and shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘I wanted to tell them … But they wouldn’t listen.’
‘Tell them what?’
‘We know that Captain Esterhazy was the real culprit in the Dreyfus Affair, Frederic. There’s enough evidence to bring a case against him and pressure’s building up to do just that.’
‘You thought you’d achieve something by explaining all that to them? And for God’s sake, where was all this?’
It had taken place at a small café near the Statistical Section office, a place used as a club by the young staff officers. Philip had tried but failed to gain admittance to the office of the tall, noisy young man who had taken the lead in shouting abuse at his sister. But at lunchtime the group appeared, ready to continue the celebrations of yesterday for their victory over the forces of political disaffection.
Philip approached them, asked to be allowed a moment of their time.
‘I want to explain to you, Lieutenant Daubert, that you’re in error ‒’
‘You know my name?’ Daubert said, looking up in surprise from the menu.
‘Yes, monsieur, I do. I took the trouble to find it out. I felt that once you’d had it explained to you how wrong you were ‒’
> ‘Wrong?’ exclaimed the lieutenant of Zouaves. He got to his feet, jarring the table so that the wine spilled out of the glasses already filled for his companions. They protested cheerily. As yet no one foresaw that things were going to turn serious.
‘Excuse me, I know it’s a strong term to use, but you behaved very badly yesterday because you were misinformed ‒ or at least, didn’t have the information. I want you to understand what a mistake you made, and then I want you to apologise to my sister.’
‘Your sister? Who on God’s earth is your sister?’
‘Madame de la Sebiq-Tramont.’
‘What? What? I say, fellows! Just imagine what the cat’s brought in! This is one of those damned Tramonts!’
‘Jules, Jules, not so loud, my boy,’ urged one of his friends. ‘You’re spoiling our appetites. What’s it all about?’
‘I’ll tell you what it’s about! This worm of a Tramont dares to come here ‒ here, on our own turf! ‒ and tell me I’ve been in the wrong to let his family know what we think of them and their crooked friend Dreyfus.’
‘That’s just the point,’ Philip persisted, thrusting down the impulse of anger that kept upsetting his good intentions. ‘Captain Dreyfus isn’t a crook. We know almost for certain that Major Esterhazy was responsible for the bordereau ‒’
‘Esterhazy? You don’t by any means refer to Major Marie-Charles Walsin-Esterhazy?’
‘That’s the man,’ cried Philip with eagerness. ‘You know of him.’
‘I say, you chaps! This toad is slandering old Marie-Charles!’
‘Shame!’ cried the others, laughing and digging each other in the ribs. ‘Saying bad things about old Major Mocha-Mug himself! Can’t have that, can’t have that!’
Major Esterhazy was a figure well-known to them. Tall, thin, yellow from old sunburn, he showed signs in his face of the years he had spent abroad in the Foreign Legion. They weren’t especially fond of him, but he was a soldier, for God’s sake, a former Zouave ‒ you couldn’t let a mere civilian cast aspersions on him.’
But they were still good-humoured about it.
‘This officer, Esterhazy,’ Philip went on, ‘he will almost certainly be court-martialled on a charge of treason.’
‘Rubbish! Twaddle! Throw him out, Daubert!’
Nothing loth, Lieutenant Daubert caught Philip by the lapels of his jacket, spun him round, and began to march him away from the table. A waiter, already alarmed at the noise, came scuttling to prevent violence. ‘Messieurs, messieurs …’
Philip cannoned into him, unable to stop himself because of Daubert’s thrust from behind. The waiter fell, Philip on top of him. Daumier stood back, laughing.
‘Oh, you tripped! Poor old chap! Diddums hurt umself?’ He helped Phip up, dusting him off but in doing so flipping his cravat askew, slapping his shoulder with the back of his hand.
‘Monsieur, don’t do that!’ Philip said, giving him a shove that made him stagger backwards.
‘Hey!’ cried the audience, delighted. ‘He’s got some spirit after all! Thought he was going to let you throw him out without a fight, Jules.’
‘He’s not going to fight. He’s a Tramont, isn’t he? You couldn’t expect anything like decent behaviour from the likes of them. What kind of a bunch can they be, anyhow? Letting one of their womenfolk get up on a public platform to make a fool of herself before strangers?’
‘Leave my sister out of it,’ Philip said hotly. ‘You did enough damage yesterday ‒’
‘No we didn’t, not nearly enough. Come on, lads, let’s rush him out and throw him in the gutter, to join his sister!’
‘Don’t dare touch me!’ said Philip. All at once his tone had changed. His voice was low and hard. The others paused, staring at him.
‘I say …’ began a younger officer at Daubert’s elbow. ‘Don’t let this get out of hand, Jules …’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing,’ Daubert said in loud contempt. ‘Look at him ‒ a snivelling civilian! He and his sister are a well-matched pair ‒ she’s a slut and he’s a fool.’
‘And you, sir, are a cad and a mannerless oaf,’ Philip replied.
‘Jules, Jules … He doesn’t understand …’
‘He understands well enough to insult me! Sir, you will retract that remark.’
‘No, sir, I will not. I’ll go further ‒ you are a coward, because you attacked a woman before her friends then slander her behind her back. You’re a rotten coward!’
A deathly hush had fallen. The group of men were staring at the two protagonists. Even the officer who had tried to restrain Daubert was silent.
Daubert reached up to his epaulette strap, drew his gloves from under it, and slapped Philip across the cheek, hard. ‘You’ll give me satisfaction for that!’
‘Certainly.’
Afterwards it was dreamlike. The younger officer, Lenotre, took Philip aside. ‘Apologise,’ he begged. ‘Apologise at once and everything will be forgotten.’
‘What I have to apologise for? It was he who insulted my sister and my family.’
No amount of anxious advice would serve. The situation couldn’t be altered. Lenotre said: ‘It’s your privilege to name the weapon, then.’
‘Weapon?’
‘I’d take pistols, if I were you. Jules is quite a good sabreman, and I daresay you’ve never …?’
‘No, never.’ He didn’t add that he’d never handled a pistol, let alone a sabre.
‘Very well. We’ll regard this as my having called on you as per protocol. It’s best not to drag this sort of thing out ‒ the police are hot on preventing duels if they can.’
It was only then that Philip thoroughly understood what had happened. He was expected to fight a duel at five next morning in the Bois de Boulogne.
‘So you see I need to have some advice about how to cock the thing and aim it,’ he explained to his brother-in-law as he eagerly drank the coffee Michel had brought …
‘You’re not going through with this nonsense?’ Frederic shouted, beside himself with horror at the mere idea.
‘What else can I do? He insists on satisfaction or an apology ‒ and I can’t apologise.’
‘Of course you can! Dammit, Phip, a man like that, who’d start a public uproar to spoil things for a harmless woman ‒ I mean, he’s nothing but shit! Why do you have to bother about him? Write him an apology!’
Philip was shaking his head. ‘It’s just what he expects me to do. He thinks I’m a spineless idiot.’
‘But, Phip ‒ you could be killed ‒ or badly injured …’
‘Then show me how to use a pistol so I can at least shoot back!’
In the end Frederic had to agree to demonstrate how a pistol worked. ‘I’ve got one, not a duelling pistol though, at home in my bureau. You go home and wait for me there. By the way, who’s going to be your second?’
‘Well, I thought … you, Frederic?’
Dear God, groaned Frederic inwardly.
As soon as he’d got rid of his brother-in-law he told his secretary that he was going out for the rest of the day. He took a hackney to the office of the Statistical Section, gave a note and a good bribe to the corporal on duty, and was admitted in due course to be taken to the room where Lieutenant Daubert worked.
As soon as he saw the man, Frederic knew his mission was useless. He knew the type ‒ big-chested, bombastic, loud-voiced great on talking about ‘honour’ and ‘duty’ but with no sensitivity and few morals.
But he had to try.
‘Lieutenant, as my note explained, I come representing Philip Hopetown-Tramont ‒’
‘Then you should speak to my second, Lieutenant Lenotre.’
‘No, monsieur, it’s you I need to talk to. My brother-in-law isn’t a fit antagonist, Lieutenant. He scarcely knows one end of a gun from another. When there’s shooting on the estate, he almost never takes part. He’ll be at a total loss in this affair.’
‘He should have thought of that before he started calling me names
.’
‘Come, monsieur, I think we both know that it was you who started it. You were to blame by distressing my wife ‒’
‘Oh? So you’re the husband!’ Daubert laughed in contempt. ‘It’s you who should have come after me, monsieur. Why send a boy to do a man’s work?’
‘I didn’t send him. And frankly, I considered you so much beneath my contempt that I never even thought of demanding satisfaction.’
‘Sir!’
‘Come, come, don’t pick a quarrel with me too.’ Frederic still had his officer’s air of authority and was the senior of Daubert by about eight years. He commanded respect. ‘I’m here to try to stop the first one. Monsieur Hopetown-Tramont came to me asking how to handle a pistol ‒ just think of that, lieutenant. He’s going to face you tomorrow morning but he hasn’t a clue how to do it.’
Daubert flushed and shrugged. ‘That’s his concern.’
‘You mean you’re quite ready to shoot a helpless target? You think that’s a way to satisfy your honour?’
‘The meeting has to take place. If you’re asking me to back out … well, I can’t.’
‘Yes you can. Your fellow-officers will understand. They wouldn’t want you to score a bull’s-eye on a defenceless man.’
‘He’ll have a pistol, too!’
‘But doesn’t even know how to cock it. And his eyesight is so bad he couldn’t hit a barn door.’
Daubert couldn’t allow himself to feel ashamed. He jutted his jaw. ‘Get him to apologise and I’ll accept. That’s the best I can do.’
‘He won’t apologise. Would you, in his place?’
‘Well, no …’
‘Come on, man! You know it’s all wrong! ‘Call it off.’
‘No, I can’t do that.’ It was true, he couldn’t. It wasn’t in him to admit he’d been totally in the wrong from the very first in suggesting the barracking of the recital by Madame de la Sebiq-Tramont. All the same, he understood that his antagonist in the duel was very much his inferior in every respect, and it was like shooting a sitting duck to take him on.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’ll shoot to the side.’
Frederic bit his lip. ‘Are you a marksman?’
The Champagne Girls Page 13
