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him. Pablo looked up. It was Jarry, studying the sketch over his shoulder.
    Pablo didn’t know what to do or say, so he took out his gun and showed it to Jarry.
    Jarry looked embarrassed. “We are touched,” he said, laying his hand on Pablo’s shoulder. “Take one of ours,” he said, handing him a .38 Webley. Then he was up on his ordinary and gone.
    Pablo did not remember anything until it was getting dark and he was standing on a street, sketchbook in one hand, pistol still held by the barrel in the other. He must have walked the streets all day that way, a seeming madman.
    He was outside a brothel. He checked his pockets for money, smiled, and went in.
    X. More Beans, Please
    “G EORGES MÉLIÈS,” SAID ROUSSEAU , “Alfred Jarry.”
    “Pleased.”
    “We are honored.”
    “Erik Satie,” said Méliès, “Henri Rousseau.”
    “Charmed.”
    “At last!”
    “This is Pablo,” said Satie. “Marcel Proust.”
    “’Lo.”
    “Delighted.”
    “Gentlemen,” said Rousseau, “Mme. Méliès.”
    “Dinner is served,” she said.
    * * *
    “But of course,” said Marcel, “ Everyone knows evidence was introduced in secret at the first trial, evidence the defense was not allowed to see.”
    “Ah, but that’s the military mind for you!” said Rousseau. “It was the same when I played piccolo for my country between 1864 and 1871. What matters is not the evidence, but that the charge has been brought against you in the first place. It proves you guilty.”
    “Out of my complete way of thinking,” said Satie, taking another helping of calamari in aspic, “having been unfortunate enough to be a civilian all my life. . . .”
    “Hear, hear!” they all said.
    “ . . . but is it not true that they asked him to copy the bordereau , the list found in the trash at the German Embassy and introduced that at the court-martial, rather than the original outline of our defenses?”
    “More beans, please,” said Pablo.
    “That is one theory,” said Marcel. “The list, of course, leaves off halfway down, because Dreyfus realized what was going to happen as they were questioning him back in December of ’94.”
    “That’s the trouble,” said Rousseau. “There are too many theories, and of course, none of this will be introduced at the Court of Cassation next month. Nothing but the original evidence, and of course, the allegations brought up by Colonel Picquart, whose own trial for insubordination is scheduled month after next.”
    Méliès sighed. “The problem, of course, is that we shall suffer one trial after another; the generals are all covering ass now. First they convict an innocent man on fabricated evidence. Finding the spying has not stopped with the wrongful imprisonment of Dreyfus, they listen to Colonel Picquart, no friend of anyone, who tells them it’s the Alsatian Esterhazy, but Esterhazy’s under the protection of someone in the War Ministry, so they send Picquart off to Fort Zinderneuf, hoping he will be killed by the Rifs; when he returns covered with scars and medals, they throw him in jail on trumped-up charges of daring to question the findings of the court-martial. Meanwhile the public outcry becomes so great that the only way things can be kept at status quo is to say questioning Dreyfus’ guilt is to question France itself. We can all hope, but of course, there can probably be only one verdict of the court of review.”
    “More turkey, please,” said Pablo.
    “The problem, of course,” said Satie, “is that France needs to be questioned if it breeds such monsters of arrogance and vanity.”
    “Excuse me, Mr. Satie,” said Madame Méliès, speaking for the first time in an hour. “The problem, of course, is that Dreyfus is a Jew.”
    She had said the thing none of the others had yet said, the thing at base, root, and crown of the Affair.
    “And being so,” said Jarry, “we are sure, Madame, if through our actions this wronged man is freed, he will be so thankful as