Free A Man in Uniform by Kate Taylor

trifle ghoulishly, Dubon thought.
    “Yes, makes you think,” he agreed. “Have you talked to the general since then?”
    “A little. Hard to know what to say.”
    “Yes. Geneviève went to call on Madame Fiteau today.”
    “Did she? Good for her. Madame Dubon is such an admirable character.”
    “She said Madame Fiteau won’t really believe that he gambled, or at least, she feels he was ensnared somehow.”
    “Aren’t they all?”
    “I suppose so. You don’t think there’s more there than meets the eye? I mean, my own brother-in-law organizes card parties, but for someone to kill himself over a debt …”
    “Young Fiteau just got in over his head, I guess. I imagine if the debts are that large, the general will settle them now.”
    “Yes, that’s what I told Geneviève,” said Dubon, shrugging off the topic, and seeking in his pockets for change.
    Masson waved off his attempts to pay. “I’ll settle up when I leave.”
    “I’ll see you Friday for dinner, then. Geneviève did say you are coming?”
    “I would never miss an opportunity to sit at your table, Dubon. I am honored that you and Madame would include me.”
    “Oh, nonsense,” said Dubon, Masson’s formality somehow reawakening in him his affection for a man who, however much heoccasionally irritated him, was one of his oldest friends. “It’s only a family dinner.”

    Perched in the back of a hansom as the driver directed his horse through the traffic around the place de l’Opéra, Dubon tried to reassure himself that he had not been indiscreet with Masson. He hadn’t given him any real details of the widow’s case nor revealed her name, and the man was hardly a gossip. His profession required discretion; it was in his nature. Not like the journalists, Dubon reminded himself: he had better be careful what he said when he met the military correspondent from Morel’s paper.
    It was only after the cab had crossed the place de la Concorde and Dubon was almost home that he recalled his recent encounter with Madeleine. He realized belatedly that two people had asked him for a raise in the space of one day. To be fair he should probably give more to Lebrun, but he would have to review his accounts and do some calculating first. He looked down at the coins in his hand as he paid the driver. Decidedly, the box of chocolates had been a bad idea from the start.

SEVEN
    Dubon watched a quartet of Europe’s top thoroughbreds round the final bend of the long course at Longchamp to begin their panting ascent of its notorious hill, and reflected that it was much better, in the end, to have a little female company to dilute all the horseflesh. His wife would never attend the races, which she considered a vulgar pastime fit only for the shameless, a category into which she freely cast the elder of her two brothers. She had always disapproved of gambling, even a little betting at the racecourse. Events at the Fiteaus’ ball had served only to strengthen her long-held conviction. Still, she would have looked grand seated well up in the stands, studying her race card with that air of quiet remove she adopted in unfamiliar settings. Madeleine, on the other hand, would have felt perfectly at home with the boisterous ladies in the first row, cheerfully urging the horses on while leaning across the rail in a way that would have afforded Dubon a nice view down the front of her dress. She was a woman who both gave pleasure and took it with happy ease.
    His companion, however, was neither his gracious wife nor his generous mistress. The widow sat tidily beside him a few rows up from thecourse watching the third race of the day with interest. She squinted occasionally at the horses, whether because she was puzzled by their behavior or simply nearsighted, Dubon wasn’t sure, but it gave her an appealing, quizzical air. If passersby gave her black dress the occasional sidelong glance, the woman herself seemed perfectly comfortable with her surroundings. She was