Free Paris Requiem by Lisa Appignanesi

quicker.’
    James smiled ruefully. ‘Maybe. Maybe something like that.’
     
    At the church of Saint-Germain, they hopped off the omnibus and made their way south along the Rue du Cherche-Midi. Raf kept up a rapid pace. James had a feeling it would have been a run if he weren’t at his side.
    As they neared the Boulevard Montparnasse, a shoutingcrowd ruptured the quiet of the narrow street and halted their passage. There were banners again, this time announcing the League for the Rights of Man and demanding justice for Dreyfus in bold letters. The alliance between the sabre and the holy water sprinkler, the military and the church, was condemned in scrawled placards.
    The protesters looked young. They were facing a set of heavy wooden doors in front of which stood a rank of soldiers in resplendent uniform, so theatrical that they could have been part of the chorus in an opera.
    ‘I’d forgotten,’ Raf tugged at James’s arm and simultaneously waved at a bearded youth. ‘There was a demonstration scheduled for today. Students and the League. For Dreyfus and against the officers who set him up on the spying charge. I was thinking of covering it, but there’s no time now. Let’s go round.’
    They squeezed towards the edge of the crowd and had just about managed to make their way to a side street when from somewhere above a projectile landed on James’s hat, whisking it off his head. He saw it there on the ground, tomato- splattered , then trampled by innumerable feet. Raf was screaming , his fist raised towards a balcony where an elderly man stood scowling.
    The crowd pressed at them. Someone handed him his hat with a laughing exhortation of
‘C’est la guerre
’. War indeed, James thought, and with a sense of exhilaration threw the battered boater at the man who had launched the missile. It hit the terrace rails and leapt off in the opposite direction.
    Raf was grinning. ‘Careful there, Jim. You risk becoming a paid-up member of the Dreyfus squad.’
    ‘Could be worse, I guess.’ James grunted.
    At last they reached the far end of the fray. Behind them the crowd had burst into song, a rousing chorus of
Ça ira.
’
    ‘I’ll get you a new hat, Jim.’ Raf was still grinning as they crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse.
    ‘Why were they demonstrating there? Is it a barracks?’
    ‘No. It’s the military prison where Dreyfus was held before they shipped him off to Devil’s Island. And Paty de Clam, one of his chief accusers, has been in there under arrest since last Friday.’
    They walked, more quickly again now, while James told Raf about the demonstration that had greeted him on his arrival at the Gare Saint-Lazare and his sense that the policemen were only playing at maintaining order.
    The frown returned to Raf’s face. ‘Yes, I can imagine. They’re hardly Dreyfusards.’ He seemed about to embark on an explanation, then stopped and pointed to a storefront which formed a triangle where two streets merged. It bore the name, Odette.
    ‘We’re here.’
    A few hats with lavish plumes sat in the store window. A bell tinkled as they pushed open the door.
    It brought a woman from a back room. She was stout, her hair carefully coiffed, her blouse ruffled over her bosom. She smiled a gracious greeting and swept her arm around the small premises as if it contained the entire wealth of the Bon Marché.
    Raf explained in his charming way that they wanted to see a Mademoiselle Louise Boussel who worked there.
    The woman’s demeanour changed. ‘No. No. I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘She’s no longer with us.’
    ‘Oh, that’s too bad. We wanted particularly to find her. Have you an address for her?’
    ‘No. If that’ll be all …’ She seemed about to whisk them from the shop.
    ‘It’s only that …’ Raf lowered his voice. ‘She’s come in for a small inheritance. From a cousin in America.’ His eyes fell to the gleaming mahogany counter. ‘Look, Jim. Some fine gloves. Ellie would like a