‘Not this time.’ I smile and put down my glass. ‘There’s a major with the Seven-Four called Esterhazy.’
Curé turns to me. His expression is unreadable. ‘There is indeed.’
‘What is he like?’
‘What has he done?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Curé nods slowly. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ He pulls himself to his feet and starts buttoning his tunic. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need to clear my head.’
Outside the wind is bracing, edged sharp by the sea. We stroll around the perimeter of the parade ground. After a while Curé says, ‘I understand you can’t tell me what this is about, but if I could give you a piece of advice, you want to be careful how you approach Esterhazy. He’s dangerous.’
‘What, you mean physically dangerous?’
‘In every way. How much do you know about him?’
‘Nothing. You’re the first person I’ve come to.’
‘Just bear in mind he’s well connected. His father was a general. He calls himself “Count Esterhazy”, but I think that’s merely an affectation. Be that as it may, his wife is the daughter of the marquis de Nettancourt, so he knows a lot of people.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Oh, he must be nearly fifty, I should think.’
‘Fifty?’ I glance around the barracks. It’s the end of the afternoon. Soldiers, pasty-faced and with grey shaven heads, are leaning out of their dormitory windows, like prison inmates.
Curé follows my gaze. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Do you?’
‘Why, if he’s fifty and the son-in-law of a marquis, is he stuck in a dump like this? Certainly it’s the first thing I’d want to know.’
‘Well then, since you bring it up, why is he?’
‘Because he has no money.’
‘Even with all these connections?’
‘He gambles it away. Not just at the table, either. On the racetrack and the stock market.’
‘Surely his wife must have some capital?’
‘Ah, but she’s got wise to him. I heard him complain that she’s even put the country house in her name, to protect herself from his creditors. She won’t let him have a sou.’
‘He also has an apartment in Paris.’
‘You may be sure that’s hers as well.’
We walk on in silence. I’m remembering Schwartzkoppen’s letter. That was all about money.
‘The worst.’
‘He neglects his duties?’
‘Entirely. The colonel’s stopped giving him anything to do.’
‘So he’s never here?’
‘On the contrary, he’s always here.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Getting in the way! He likes to hang around and ask a lot of damn fool questions about things that have nothing to do with him.’
‘Questions about what?’
‘Everything.’
‘Gunnery, for example?’
‘Definitely.’
‘What does he ask about gunnery?’
‘What doesn’t he ask! He’s been on at least three artillery exercises, to my certain knowledge. The last one the colonel absolutely refused to assign him to, so he ended up paying for the trip himself.’
‘I thought you said he didn’t have any money?’
‘True, that’s a point.’ Curé halts in his tracks. ‘Now I think about it, I happen to know he also paid a corporal in his battalion to copy the firing manuals — you know we’re not allowed to keep them for more than a day or two.’
‘Did he give a reason?’
‘He said he was thinking of suggesting some improvements. .’
We resume walking. The sun has dipped behind one of the dormitory blocks, casting the parade ground into shadow. The air is suddenly chilly. I say, ‘You mentioned earlier that he was dangerous.’
‘It’s not easy to describe. There’s a kind of. . wildness about him, and also cunning. And yet he can be quite charming. Put it this way: despite the way he acts, nobody wants to cross him. He also has a quite extraordinary appearance. You’d need to see him to understand what I mean.’
‘I’d like to. The trouble is, I can’t risk letting him see me. Is there a place I might get a glimpse of him, without him realising it?’
‘There’s a bar near here he goes to most nights. It’s not certain, but you could probably spot him there.’
‘Could you take me?’
‘I thought you were getting out on the evening train?’
‘I can stay until the morning. One night won’t hurt. Come on, my friend! It will be like old times.’
But Curé seems to have had enough of the ‘old times’ routine. His glance is hard, appraising. ‘Now I know it must be serious, Georges, if you’re willing to give up a night in Paris for it.’
Curé presses me to come back to his quarters and wait with him for nightfall, but I prefer not to linger within the confines of the barracks in case I’m recognised. There is a small hotel for commercial travellers close to the station which I remember passing; I walk back and pay for a room. It is a stale-smelling, dingy place, without electricity; the mattress is hard and thin; whenever a train passes, the walls shake. But it will do for a night. I stretch out on the bed: it’s short; my feet hang over the edge. I smoke and contemplate the mysterious Esterhazy, a man who appears to possess in abundance the very thing that Dreyfus so singularly lacked: motive.
