An Officer and a Spy

Abruptly the houses and the factories fall away and we are into open Breton country. Beyond the canal to my right I can see the railway line and a train steaming into the station; to my left are fields with cows and distant woodland. The gunman suddenly leaves the towpath, darts off to the left and heads towards the trees. A year ago I would have caught him. But all those months in prison have done for me. I am out of breath, have cramp, my heart feels strange. I leap a ditch and land badly, and by the time I reach the edge of the wood he has had plenty of time to conceal himself. I find a stout stick and crash around in the undergrowth for half an hour, slashing at the ferns, startling pheasants, conscious all the while that I might be in his sights, until at last the silence of the trees defeats me and I make my way, limping, back to the canal.

I have to walk back more than three kilometres and so I miss the immediate aftermath of the shooting. Edmond describes it all for me later: how, when he returned to Labori, the great advocate had somehow managed to drag his body on top of his briefcase in order to deter various individuals who had recognised him and were trying to steal his notes; how Marguerite Labori had rushed to the scene wearing a black and white summer dress, and had cradled her husband in her lap, trying to keep him cool with the aid of a small Japanese fan; how he had lain on his side with his arm around her, talking calmly, but scarcely shedding blood — an ominous sign as it often suggests the bleeding is internal; how a shutter had been fetched and four soldiers had heaved Labori on to it and carried the giant with difficulty back to his lodgings; how the doctor had examined him and announced that the bullet was lodged between the fifth and sixth ribs, millimetres from his spine, and the situation was grave — the patient was unable to move his leg; how Labori’s fellow advocate, Demange, had hurried over from the courtroom along with his assistants to find out what was happening; how Labori had grasped his colleague’s hand and said, ‘Old chap, I’m going to die perhaps, but Dreyfus is safe’; and how everyone had remarked on the way that Dreyfus in court had received the news of his lawyer’s shooting without the slightest change in his facial expression.

By the time I get back, which must be nearly an hour after the attack, the scene of the assault is oddly deserted, as if nothing has happened. At Labori’s lodgings his landlady tells me he has been taken to the house of Victor Basch, a Dreyfusard professor at the local university, who lives in the rue d’Antrain, the same street as Les Trois Marches. I walk up the hill to find a group of journalists in the road outside and a pair of gendarmes guarding the door. Inside, Labori has been laid out, unconscious by now, on a mattress in a downstairs room, and Marguerite is beside him, holding his hand. His face is deathly white. The doctor has summoned a surgeon, who has not yet arrived; his own interim opinion is that it is too dangerous to operate and that the bullet is best left where it is: the next twenty-four hours will be crucial in showing the extent of the damage.

There is a police inspector in the front parlour, questioning Edmond. I give him my description of the attacker, the chase and the location of the wood into which he ran. ‘Cesson Forest,’ says the inspector. ‘I’ll have it searched,’ and he goes out into the hall to speak to one of his men.

While he is out of the room, Edmond says, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Disgusted at my physical fitness; otherwise fine.’ I pound the arm of my chair in frustration. ‘If only I had been carrying my gun — I’d have brought him down easily.’

‘Was it Labori he was after, or you?’

I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Oh, Labori — I’m sure of it. They must have been desperate to stop him cross-examining Mercier. We’ll need to find a replacement for him when the trial resumes.’

Edmond looks stricken. ‘My God, didn’t you hear? Jouaust would only agree to an adjournment of forty-five minutes. Demange has had to go back to examine Mercier.’

‘But Demange isn’t prepared! He doesn’t know the questions to ask!’

It is a disaster. I hurry out of the house, past the journalists, down the slope towards the lycée. It is starting to rain. Huge, warm drops explode on the street stones, filling the air with a fragrance of moist dust. Several of the reporters set off after me. They trot alongside asking questions and somehow managing to write down my answers.

‘So the assassin is still at large?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Do you think he’ll be caught?’

‘He could be — whether he will be is another question.’

‘Do you think the army is behind it?’

‘I hope not.’

‘You don’t rule it out?’

‘Let me put it this way: I think it curious that in a town filled with five thousand police and soldiers, an assassin is able to gun down Dreyfus’s advocate and melt away without apparent difficulty.’