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attachés at the embassies are spies, but one can’t very well cut off relations with the foreign powers. Goodness, even an old cavalry officer like me knows how the system works.”
    “But this is an outrage,” Jean-Jean persisted. “I assumed we were among friends.”
    “Oh, we are among friends all right—just don’t go discussing statesecrets with them, any more than you would go discuss them with your wife. Well, if you had a wife, that is.” The major was always ready to poke fun at his brother’s bachelor status. Now, to demonstrate how chummy everyone was, he called out.
    “Schwarzkoppen. Come and meet my brothers; bring your Italian friend with you.”
    A rather sleek and self-satisfied-looking man began moving toward them, followed by a second, less commanding person. Dubon suddenly found Masson’s tall figure at his elbow, quietly insinuating himself into the group.
    “Dubon, I don’t believe you have met Colonel Schwarzkoppen, nor Major Panizzardi,” the major began. “My brother-in-law, Dubon. A lawyer, but we won’t hold that against him. This is my brother, Captain de Ronchaud Valcourt. And the Baron de Masson,” he added.
    “Nice to meet you, Monsieur Dubon, Captain,” said the taller of the two foreigners, as he and the Italian each shook hands with Dubon and Jean-Jean. They simply nodded in Masson’s direction; apparently they knew him already.
    “The colonel is with the German embassy, the military attaché,” the major continued, leaning in toward Jean-Jean, feigning a conspiratorial whisper and repeating his previous accusation. “That means he’s a spy, Captain.”
    Jean-Jean glared at his brother but said nothing.
    “Ah, Major, if I were a spy, I would have succeeded in discovering where it is you have moved your little card parties,” the German said. “I haven’t seen you since the autumn.”
    “Oh, sh, Colonel. Not in front of my brother-in-law. He’ll have my sister after me. Nothing wrong with a little gaming between gentlemen, but if Geneviève were to find out, she’d be horrified. Since our parents’ deaths, she does like to play mother hen.”
    The major emitted a braying laugh and Dubon said nothing. The major’s disapproving family already knew of his habit, but thus far his wagers were never so extravagant that he had gotten into serious trouble.
    “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Madame Dubon, but I hear she is charming.” Schwarzkoppen bowed slightly as he addressedDubon, who wasn’t certain he really wanted to introduce this handsome character to his wife.
    “She’s still busy on the dance floor, and she has promised me the first waltz,” Dubon responded.
    The major chuckled. “Schwarzkoppen, no man wants to introduce you to his wife. Your reputation as a lady’s man precedes you.”
    Schwarzkoppen and the major now turned to an enthusiastic discussion of their best bets for opening day at the Longchamp racecourse that Sunday while Dubon and the Italian mainly listened.
    When the orchestra struck up a waltz, Dubon excused himself. “I must find my wife. It’s a little tradition we have—a waltz.”
    He found Geneviève waiting for him at the edge of the dance floor. He slid his arms around her waist and drew her to him. Sniffing her familiar perfume, he felt, for the first time that evening, rather peaceful. These dances were a touch of romance remaining in their otherwise practical union. Giddy with love and nerves, he had proposed to her in the middle of a waltz at just such a military ball eighteen years before. She had been something of a rebel in those days: a few months previously, she had rejected the young officer whom her parents had in mind. Dubon had felt it an enormous victory when he gained first her father’s permission and then Geneviève’s own consent.
    “Lovely party,” Geneviève said as they moved across the floor. “Madame Fiteau always does the most wonderful job of her ball.”
    “Mmm,” Dubon agreed