An Officer and a Spy

gentlemen!’ but I can see in Henry’s eyes that he hears nothing except the pumping of his own blood. He lunges at me once again and this time I feel his blade on the tendon of my neck, which is as close as I have come to death since the day I was born. Ranc calls out, ‘Stop!’ just as the tip of my sword catches Henry on the forearm. He glances down at it and lowers his weapon, and I do the same as the witnesses and doctors hurry across to us. The sergeant major consults his watch. ‘The first engagement lasted two minutes.’
    My surgeon stands me directly beneath a skylight and turns my head to inspect my neck. He says, ‘You’re fine: he must have missed you by a hair.’
    Henry, though, is bleeding from his forearm – not a serious cut, merely a graze, but enough for the adjudicator to say to him, ‘Colonel, you may refuse to continue.’
    Henry shakes his head. ‘We’ll carry on.’
    While he is rolling back his sleeve and wiping the blood away Edmond says to me quietly, ‘This fellow is a homicidal lunatic. I’ve never seen such a display.’
    ‘If he tries it again,’ adds Ranc, ‘I shall have the thing stopped.’
    ‘No,’ I say, ‘don’t do that. Let’s fight it to the end.’
    The adjudicator calls, ‘Gentlemen, to your places!’
    ‘Allez!’
    Henry tries to start the re-engagement where he left it, with the same aggression as before, driving me back towards the wall. But the lower part of his arm is braided with blood. His grip is slippery. The slashing strokes no longer carry the old conviction – they are slowing, weakening. He needs to finish me quickly or he will lose. He throws everything into one last lunge at my heart. I parry the blow, turn his blade, thrust, and catch the edge of his elbow. He bellows in pain and drops his sword. His seconds shout, ‘Stop!’
    ‘No!’ he shouts, wincing and clutching his elbow. ‘I can continue!’ He stoops and retrieves his sword with his left hand and attempts to fit the hilt into his right, but his bloodied fingers won’t close on it. He tries repeatedly, but each time he attempts to raise it, the sword drops to the floor. I watch him without pity. ‘Give me a minute,’ he mutters, and turns his back to me to hide his weakness.
    Eventually the two colonels and his doctor persuade him to go over to the table to allow the wound to be examined. Five minutes later Colonel Parès approaches where I am waiting with Edmond and Ranc and announces, ‘The cubital nerve is damaged. The fingers will be unable to grip for several days. Colonel Henry must withdraw.’ He salutes and walks away.
    I put on my waistcoat and my jacket and glance across to where Henry sits slumped on a chair, staring at the floor. Colonel Parès stands behind him and guides his arms into the sleeves of his tunic, then Colonel Boissonnet kneels at his feet and fastens his buttons.
    ‘Look at him,’ says Ranc contemptuously, ‘like a great big baby. He’s completely finished.’
    ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I believe he is.’
    We do not observe the usual custom following a duel and shake hands. Instead, as word filters out into the avenue de Lowendal that their hero has been wounded, I am hurried away through a rear exit to avoid the hostile crowd. According to the front pages the next day, Henry leaves to the cheers of his supporters, his arm in a sling, and is driven in an open landau around the corner to his apartment, where General Boisdeffre waits in person to offer him the best wishes of the army. I go out to lunch with Edmond and Ranc, and discover that the old senator is indeed correct: I have seldom had a better appetite nor more enjoyed a meal.
    This buoyant mood persists, and for the next three months I wake each morning with a curious sense of optimism. On the face of it, my situation could hardly be worse. I have nothing to do, no career to go to, an inadequate income, and little capital to draw on. I still cannot see Pauline while her divorce is pending in case we are observed by the press or the police. Blanche has gone away: it was only after much string-pulling by her brother and various subterfuges (including the pretence that she was a fifty-five-year-old spinster with a heart condition) that she managed to avoid being called as a witness at the Zola trial. I am hissed at in public and libelled in various newspapers, which are tipped off by Henry that I have been seen meeting Colonel von Schwartzkoppen in Karlsruhe. Louis is removed as deputy