Mira's Diary (11 page)

“I suppose anyone could have made up lies, but I've heard that a counterintelligence agent named Hubert-Joseph Henry is behind some kind of file on Dreyfus, maybe this secret one.” Whistler leaned back with a broad grin. “You have to go to England to get all the facts. They won't print them here in France!”

“Pfffttt!” Degas snorted. “As if British journalism is so pure!”

“In this case it is!” huffed Whistler.

“Back to this Henry fellow,” I interrupted. “If I wanted to talk to him, where would I find him?”

Whistler peered at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “You want to talk to him? Are you a girl reporter from the
New
York
Herald
in disguise? Try the War Ministry or the War College. And good luck!”

Claude stared at me. “What are you talking about?” he hissed. “Do you know something?”

“Just as much as you know,” I whispered back. “I'm trying to learn more.”

“What do you think, Zola?” asked Whistler. “You're strangely silent.”

“I don't know enough yet to judge. And I'm not sure I should care.”

Whistler raised an eyebrow so high it almost floated off his forehead. “Justice is something we should all care about. This affair smells to high heaven and we're not through with it yet, I assure you. This poor Dreyfus fellow has been sent off to Devil's Island, but he'll appeal. If he's innocent, the truth will out and the War Ministry won't look foolish. It will look evil.”

As if called up by the word “evil,” the woman from the racetrack walked into the café. Or should I say “slithered”? She swung her hips in an exaggerated roll, her head proudly high. If I didn't know her, I'd be in awe of her model good looks. But I did know her and my mouth went dry with panic, though I knew she couldn't do anything to me here in public. I glared at her, daring her to make a move.

She shifted her beady eyes from face to face, passing over mine to light on Zola's.

“Monsieur!” she exclaimed, rudely interrupting the conversation. “We've met, but you probably don't remember me. I'm Madame Lefoutre from the Free Press Agency, and we'd love for you to write something about the despicable traitor who has stained with his vileness the uniform he wore. Treason is, after all, a serious offense, one the public should be quick to condemn.”

“Madame, I assure you, if I'd met you before, I would remember,” Zola said. “A man doesn't forget such beauty!”

“Are you referring to Dreyfus or to the military court that condemned him on so little evidence?” Whistler asked, clearly not as charmed by Madame Lefoutre's looks as Zola was.

“To Dreyfus, of course!” she snapped.

“And your little dog too!” I couldn't resist saying. She sounded so much like Miss Gulch, about to scoop up Toto and stuff the dog into the basket on her bicycle.

“Dog? What are you talking about? Dreyfus, yes, he's a dog, an ugly mongrel of the lowest breeding,” Madame Lefoutre-my-foot said.

“Alas, I'm not the kind of writer you're looking for.” Zola sighed, ignoring Whistler's jibes and my random remarks. “I write novels, not journalism.”

“She thinks you owe the army an apology since you wrote that rabble-rousing book criticizing their corruption and ineptitude in the military years ago,” Whistler said.

“Rabble-rousing?” I asked. That's what Zola needed to do for Dreyfus!

“My radical days are over.” Zola sipped his wine. “That is what youth is for. Now I'm a respectable citizen.”

“Then you should want to write a defense of the army!” Madame Lefoutre insisted. I'll give her this, she didn't give up easily.

“I write what I choose, not what others tell me to write.” Zola smiled. “Even when the request comes from such luscious lips that it is hard to refuse.”

“Did I mention that we'll pay—quite generously, I should add?”

“Not nearly enough, Madame.” Zola stood up. “I'm sorry, but I must be going now.”

Madame Lefoutre followed him out but he gave her a double-cheek kiss, hailed a cab, and climbed inside. I wondered if I could be any more convincing about writing something
for
Dreyfus rather than against. I didn't have any of Madame's formidable powers of flirtation or money. What could I possibly offer him?

“I'm sorry she left,” Whistler said dryly. “I was about to ask her to model for me. She's the very picture of Greed and Cruelty in their oh-so-deceptive beauty.”

Degas frowned. “Who wants to paint such blandness? I prefer faces with that saving touch of ugliness, that detail that gives character, that makes a face truly interesting.” When he said that, I wanted to hug him. It was the kind of thing that made me like him so much, even though he was so wrong about Dreyfus. He might agree with Madame politically, but that didn't mean he liked her.

“That, my friend, we can all agree on. Let's drink to Character, to the Truly Interesting!” Whistler held up his glass. Mary, Claude, and Degas all lifted theirs.

So maybe Claude wouldn't be fired as Degas's assistant if they could all drink together after such a heated argument. I didn't stay to find out, though. I had to find Hubert-Joseph Henry. And thanks to Whistler, I had an idea of where. I wasn't eager to go back to the War College, but this time there'd be no mob. Just me and a chance to set things right.

I circled the War Ministry and the War College, tried to get into both places, but each time I was turned away. I waited outside the War College for hours, staring across the green at the Eiffel Tower. Funny to think it hadn't been here when I was last in Paris in 1881, and now here it was, that landmark everyone associated with the city.

I waited so long that I had time to invent a whole story to explain myself, using Degas's family as an example. I planned on introducing myself as a long-lost cousin from the American branch of Henry's family and saying I was tracking him down because he had come into an inheritance. If he thought he would get something valuable from me, he'd want to talk. If I got that far.

“Go home, girlie,” barked the guard. “No visitors allowed.”

“I'm not visiting. I'm waiting.”

A carriage rolled up and the guard snapped to attention. A thick man in an elaborate uniform with gold braid epaulets and buttons, shiny high boots, and a Napoleonic hat stepped out.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, rushing up before the guard could shoo me away. “I'm looking for Hubert-Joseph Henry, an officer here. It's urgent that I speak with him. This guard has refused to let me pass.”

“And you are?” the man asked gruffly. His face wasn't kind at all, but severe and shut off, as if he saw only the things he wanted to see—and I wasn't one of them.

I launched into my story. “I'm a relative of his from New Orleans. My mother told me to find him here. I have some important news to deliver to him.”

“Is the news military?” snapped the man. “I think not! Then you can find Monsieur Henry at home.”

“Now go!” roared the guard.

I went, but not so far that I couldn't see Henry when he left, if he was there in the first place. I didn't know what he looked like, but I figured I'd approach every officer until I found the right one. Except long minutes stretched by and nobody came out. Or went in. I'd almost dozed off when I heard another carriage roll up to the entry. It waited there until a man came out of the War College. His uniform was less elaborate than the gruff man's, but he still looked like an officer.

“Lieutenant Colonel Henry.” The guard saluted. “A young lady was here looking for you. Said she's from your family in America.”

“America?” Henry frowned. “I have no relatives in America.” He stepped into the carriage.

Two more men followed him, but the strange thing was that although they carried themselves rigidly like soldiers, neither of them wore military uniforms. One was tall with a big bushy beard, and as I peered at him, I realized that it hooked over his ears, like a disguise. The other was short with blue-tinted glasses, like props in some play.

“Come on, Henry, let's go!” the short one yelled, leaning out of the carriage to thump on the door. “
Allez-y!
”

Could I keep up with a carriage? I had to try. I must have looked strange holding up my skirts and jogging along behind them, but they couldn't see me and I didn't care about anybody else. When the horse trotted, I had to run to keep pace, but when it got crowded and the horse slowed to a walk, I had a chance to catch my breath. Luckily for me, it was late in the day, the streets were thronged, and the horse was forced to walk most of the time.

The carriage slowed to a stop in front of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Fake Beard and Blue Glasses got out, but they didn't walk away. Instead they leaned against the carriage and waited. For who or what I had no idea.

I thought of approaching Hubert-Joseph Henry then, but decided to see what they were waiting for first. I stood by the park gate, pretending I really was waiting for somebody. If I'd had a watch to check, I would have, but all I could do to mime my impatience was to stomp a foot now and then and mutter, “Where could he be?” I felt like Winnie the Pooh trying to convince the bees that he was an innocent rain cloud so he could grab their honey.

The two men weren't looking at me at all, so I was probably wasting my act, but I kept it up until a third man arrived. Then I inched closer so I could hear what they said.

“Why do you need to see me?” the third man shrilled. He was shorter than Blue Glasses, with ears that stuck out like jug handles and an even bigger mustache than Whistler's.

“Henry's waiting for you in the cab,” Fake Beard hissed.

“You idiot!” Blue Glasses snarled. “They found your other note, the shredded one from the German attaché! Dreyfus is on Devil's Island, chained to his bed, guarded day and night, yet you've proven that the traitor is a free man, still passing information to the Germans! Picquart wants you arrested, but fortunately for you, if you hang, so do we all! This isn't about saving your skin but preserving the reputation of the army.”

“Then hadn't you better treat me more kindly?” huffed Jug Ears. Or I should say, the real traitor, because obviously that's who he was. This man was the officer selling military secrets to the Germans. And being protected by the French military for his crimes!

I wanted to squeeze into the carriage with Jug Ears. But all I could do was wait like the two men wearing their oh-so-fake disguises. At least now I knew why—they had to be military officers too. But instead of arresting the traitor, they were plotting with him.

The minutes stretched on. People walked by, carriages passed. A girl chased a hoop through the gates and into the park. A small dog yapped, straining eagerly at its leash.

Jug Ears clambered out, smoothing his waistcoat. He tipped his hat at Fake Beard and winked. “You'll be taking care of me now, it seems. So long as I have no worries, you have no worries. Otherwise, we'll all end up covered with mud—you more than me, I should think. Good day, gentlemen!”

Fake Beard clenched his fingers into tight fists. “We have to protect that scum!”

“Calm down,” said Blue Glasses. “We're protecting ourselves. Esterházy is innocent and Dreyfus is guilty, and that's that.”

Esterházy must be Jug Ears' name. I wanted to write it down to be sure I remembered it, but I didn't have time. The two men were getting into the carriage with Henry. Before it could drive away, I ran up and opened the door.

“Excuse me!” I said. “Monsieur Henry, I need to talk to you!”

The man in uniform leaned forward in his seat. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Can I talk to you in private, sir? Please, it's urgent! It's a private family matter!”

“This is nonsense!” Fake Beard said.

“Please!” I begged.

Henry looked torn, like he wanted to listen to me, but Fake Beard slammed the door shut, and the carriage lumbered away. At first I could keep up, but as we came to a broad boulevard, the horse broke into a trot.

I stopped at a fountain, trying to catch my breath. It was no use; they were too fast. I sank down by the water, ready to cry in frustration. I could try the War College again tomorrow, or maybe I could write to Henry there and convince him somehow to show the public what was in the secret file. After all, if the evidence was true, it would stand up to scrutiny. If it wasn't, it deserved to be discovered for the fraud it was.

I stared into the water, searching for an idea. The fountain was mock Egyptian, with a palm tree capital in the middle surrounded by four sphinxes. “Can you answer the riddle for me?” I asked the sphinx nearest me. “Can you tell me how to solve this mystery?”

Of course, the sphinx said nothing, but when I stretched out a hand and touched its paw, a shiver run through me. Light and dark blinked past, and I swirled away in the haze of time flooding around me. The fountain was a touchstone.