An Officer and a Spy

‘Stay here.’
    I set off in pursuit of the gunman. After a few seconds I am aware of Edmond running behind me. He shouts, ‘Georges, be careful!’
    I yell over my shoulder, ‘Go back to Labori!’ and lengthen my stride, pumping my arms.
    Edmond runs for a little longer then gives up the chase. I put my head down, forcing myself to go faster. I am gaining on my quarry. Exactly what I will do if I get my hands on him, given that he presumably has five bullets left and I am unarmed, I am not sure: I will deal with that situation when it arises. In the meantime, there are bargemen up ahead and I shout out to them to grab the assassin. They look to see what is happening, drop their ropes and block his path.
    I am close now – twenty metres perhaps – close enough to see him point his gun at them and hear him scream, ‘Get out of my way! I’ve just killed Dreyfus!’
    Whether it’s the gun or the boast, it does the trick. They stand aside and he runs on, and when I race past them, I have to hurdle a foot that is stuck out to trip me over.
    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