An Officer and a Spy

dragoons from the Médoc, risen through the ranks, obliged to resign his commission because of gambling debts, but who has made an honest fist of his life since: if anyone has a chance of prising open the secrets of Esterhazy’s addiction, I reckon it will be him.
    After Gribelin has slunk away, I write Desvernine a message asking him to meet me the day after tomorrow. Rather than inviting him to the office, where Henry and Lauth will be able to see him, I propose a meeting at nine in the morning outside the Louvre museum, in the place du Carrousel. I tell him I shall be in civilian dress, with a frock coat and a bowler hat, and with a red carnation in my buttonhole and a copy of Le Figaro under my arm. As I seal the envelope, I reflect how easily I am slipping into the clichés of the spying world. It alarms me. Already I trust no one. How long before I am raving like Sandherr about degenerates and foreigners? It is a déformation professionnelle : all spymasters must go mad in the end.
    On Wednesday morning, suitably accoutred, I present myself outside the Louvre. From the lines of tourists suddenly emerges a keen-looking, fresh-faced man with a salt-and-pepper moustache, who I take to be Desvernine. We exchange nods. I realise he must have been watching me for several minutes.
    ‘You’re not being followed, Colonel,’ he says quietly, ‘at least not as far as I can tell. However, I suggest we take a walk into the museum, if that’s agreeable, where it will look more natural if I need to make notes.’
    ‘Whatever you advise: this sort of thing is not my line.’
    ‘Quite right too, Colonel – leave it to the likes of me.’
    He has a sportsman’s open shoulders and rolling walk. I follow him towards the nearest pavilion. It is early in the day, and therefore not yet crowded. In the vestibule there is a cloakroom by the entrance, stairs straight ahead, and galleries to our left and right. When Desvernine turns right, I make a protest: ‘Do we have to go in there? That’s the most awful rubbish.’
    ‘Really? It all looks the same to me.’
    ‘You handle the police work, Desvernine; leave the culture to me. We’ll go in here.’
    I buy a guidebook and in the Galerie Denon, which has the smell of a schoolroom, we stand together and contemplate a bronze of Commodus as Hercules – a Renaissance copy from the Vatican. The gallery is almost deserted.
    I say, ‘This must remain between the two of us, understood? If your superiors try to discover what you’re doing, refer them to me.’
    ‘I understand.’ Desvernine takes out his notebook and pencil.
    ‘I want you to find out everything you can about an army major by the name of Charles Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy.’ My voice echoes even when I whisper. ‘He sometimes calls himself Count Esterhazy. He’s forty-eight years old, serving with the 74th Infantry Regiment in Rouen. He’s married to the daughter of the marquis de Nettancourt. He gambles, plays the stock market, generally leads a dissolute life – you’ll know where to look for such a character better than I.’
    Desvernine flushes slightly. ‘When do you need this done?’
    ‘As quickly as possible. Would it be possible to have a preliminary report next week?’
    ‘I’ll try.’
    ‘One other thing: I’m interested in how often Esterhazy goes to the German Embassy.’
    If Desvernine finds this last request surprising, he is too professional to show it. We must make an odd couple: I in my bowler and frock coat, apparently reading the guidebook and holding forth; he in a shabby brown suit, taking down my dictation. But nobody is looking at us. We move along to the next exhibit. The guidebook lists it as Boy extracting a thorn from his foot .
    Desvernine says, ‘We should meet somewhere different next time, just as a precaution.’
    ‘What about the restaurant at the gare Saint-Lazare?’ I suggest, remembering my trip to Rouen. ‘That’s on your patch.’
    ‘I know it well.’
    ‘Next Thursday, at seven in the evening?’
    ‘Agreed.’ He writes it down then puts away his notebook and stares at the bronze sculpture. He scratches his head. ‘You really think this stuff is good, Colonel?’
    ‘No, I didn’t say that. As so often in life, it’s just better than the alternative.’
    Not all my time is devoted to investigating Esterhazy. I have other things to worry about – not least, the treasonable activity of homing pigeons.
    Gribelin brings me the file. It has been sent