Free An Officer and a Spy by Robert Harris

inside the escritoire, shave, change into a clean dress uniform, and set off to the home of my friends the comte and comtesse de Comminges.
    I have known Aimery de Comminges, baron de Saint-Lary, since we were stationed in Tonkin together more than a decade ago. I was a young junior staff officer; he an even younger and more junior lieutenant. For two years we fought the Vietnamese in the Red River delta and knocked around Saigon and Hanoi, and when we returned to France our friendship prospered. He introduced me to his parents and to his younger sisters, Daisy, Blanche and Isabelle. All three women were musical, single, high-spirited, and gradually a salon arose, consisting of them and their friends and those army comrades of Aimery’s who took—or, for the sake of meeting the sisters, pretended to take—an interest in music.
    Six years on the salon persists, and it is to one of these musical soirées that I am bidden tonight. As usual, for purposes of fitness as much as economy, I walk to the party rather than take a cab—and walk briskly at that, for I am in danger of being late. The de Comminges’ family
hôtel
stands, ancient and massive, on the boulevard Saint-Germain. I can tell it from a distance by the carriages and cabs drawn up to drop off guests. Inside I am greeted with a friendly salute and a warm double handshake by Aimery, now a captain on the staff of the Minister of War, and then I kiss his wife, Mathilde, whose family, the Waldner von Freundsteins, is one of the oldest in Alsace. Mathilde is the mistress of this house now, and has been for a year, ever since the old comte died.
    “Go on up,” she whispers, her hand on my arm. “We’ll be starting in a few minutes.” Her method of playing the charming hostess—and it is not a bad one—is to make even the most commonplace remark sound like an intimate secret. “And you’ll stay to dinner, won’t you, my dear Georges?”
    “I would love to, thank you.” In truth, I had been hoping to get away early, but I submit without demur. Bachelors of forty are society’s stray cats. We are taken in by households and fed and made afuss of; in return we are expected to provide amusement, submit with good grace to occasionally intrusive affection (“So when are you going to get married, eh, Georges?”), and always agree to make up the numbers at dinner, however short the notice.
    As I move on into the house, Aimery shouts after me, “Blanche is looking for you!” and almost at the same moment I see his sister dodging through the crowded hall towards me. Her gown, with matching headdress, contains a great number of feathers dyed dark green, crimson and gold.
    “Blanche,” I say, as she kisses me, “you look like a particularly succulent pheasant.”
    “Now I hope you are going to be a Good God this evening,” she replies chirpily, “and not a Horrid God, because I have prepared a nice surprise for you,” and she takes my arm and leads me towards the garden, in the opposite direction to everyone else.
    I offer token resistance. “I think Mathilde wants us all to go upstairs …”
    “Don’t be silly! It’s barely seven!” She lowers her voice. “Is this a
German
thing, do you suppose?”
    She marches me towards the glass doors that open onto the tiny strip of garden, separated from its neighbours by a high wall strung with unlit Chinese lanterns. Waiters are collecting discarded glasses of orangeade and liqueurs. The drinkers have all left to go upstairs. Only one woman stands alone, with her back to me, and when she turns I see it is Pauline. She smiles.
    “There,” says Blanche, with a strange edge to her voice, “you see? A surprise.”
    It is always Blanche who arranges the concerts. Tonight she presents her latest discovery, a young Catalan prodigy, Monsieur Casals, only eighteen, whom she found playing second cello in the theatre orchestra of the Folies-Marigny. He begins with the Saint-Saëns cello sonata, and from the opening