Free The Red Collar by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Adriana Hunter

followed her along the hotel’s corridors, with their painted wallpaper and pictures on the walls, he grasped what held her back. At home, she was in keeping with her surroundings. Here, her coarse dress and wooden clogs made her look like a slattern.
    He showed her to the back of the building, onto a small terrace where there were some garden chairs. She was less out of place in this outdoor setting than in the lounges with their decorative moldings.
    He ordered a coffee. She didn’t want anything. This refusal seemed to demonstrate a determination not to accept anything from anyone she considered her enemy. Had it been more moderate, this principle might have seemed respectable and even formidable. Pushed to extremes and applied to the most insignificant things, such as a cup of coffee, there was something laughable and puerile about it.
    She’d put her basket on the ground and was pretending to rifle through it, just to have something to do. When the serving girl had brought Lantier’s coffee and they were left alone, she glowered at Lantier and, with no preamble, cut straight to, “Actually, I do want to see him. And I want him to know.”
    â€œI’ve suggested it to him but . . . ”
    â€œThat’s for sure, he’ll say no. But you mustn’t just ‘suggest’ it.”
    She imitated the fluty way Lantier had said the word. This intonation alone was a gauge of the violent feelings that gripped her at the thought of the army.
    â€œWhat exactly would you like me to say to him?”
    â€œThat I
have
to see him. It has to happen. And I want to.”
    â€œLeave it with me. I’ll come to your house to bring you the answer myself if he changes his mind.”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI’ll stay in town in the meantime.”
    Lantier showed his surprise with one raised eyebrow.
    â€œThere’s a woman I know who sells vegetables next to me in the market. She’ll put me up for as long as it takes. She lives behind the covered market.”
    â€œVery well.”
    â€œIs he allowed letters?”
    â€œYes, but the jailer opens them and reads them.”
    â€œIn that case, I’d rather speak,” she hissed.
    She had risen to her feet and picked up her basket, resting it on her hip like a lavender girl.
    â€œTell him that when he came back he got things wrong. The man was a comrade.”
    â€œDo you mean that he . . . ”
    â€œIt’s not you I’m talking to, but him. And him alone.”
    She was clearly distressed and her emotion sat awkwardly with the restraint she imposed on herself. She was better off slipping away. She barely said goodbye to Lantier, and he made no effort to keep her there.
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    * * *
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    When he arrived at the prison to take Morlac’s final confession, the investigating officer was surprised by the silence in the square. There was no sign of Wilhelm and he couldn’t be heard. Lantier asked Dujeux what had happened to the dog.
    â€œHe was at the end of his tether from all that barking. He eventually stopped during the night. In the moonlight I could make him out lying flat out over there. I thought he’d died. To be absolutely honest, I wouldn’t have minded. But the nursing assistant told me what had happened when she brought our food.”
    â€œWhere is he? You know I need that dog for my investigation. He’s a contributory factor in the offense, a sort of accomplice or an exhibit.”
    â€œHe’s over there, in one of the houses. You see the little street that leads off at an angle from the square? It’s there, on the ground floor. The first door.”
    â€œHave you been in there?”
    â€œI’m not allowed to leave my post.”
    â€œTrue. In that case, I shall go myself.”
    As he cut across the square, Lantier wondered why he’d invented the story about an exhibit. Morlac could easily be