An Officer and a Spy (27 page)

Dreyfus interrupted: “So the
bordereau
must have been written by me, both because it resembles my handwriting and because it doesn’t?”

“Exactly!”

“Then how can you ever be refuted?”

A good point. I had to suppress a smile. But although Bertillon may have seemed to Dreyfus and indeed to me an impostor, I could see he had impressed the judges. They were soldiers. They liked facts and diagrams and ruled squares and words like “reticulation.” One hundred million to one! Here was a statistic they could grasp.

At the lunchtime adjournment, du Paty approached me in the corridor. He was rubbing his hands. “I gather from several of the judges that Bertillon did well this morning. I do believe we have the scoundrel where we want him at last. What will you tell the minister?”

“That Bertillon appears unhinged, and that I’m still not sure I would put the odds of a conviction at better than fifty-fifty.”

“The minister told me of your pessimism. Of course it’s always easy to complain from the sidelines.” Tucked beneath his arm he had a large manila envelope. He gave it to me. “This is from General Mercier for you.”

It wasn’t heavy. It felt as if it might contain perhaps a dozen sheets of paper. In the top right-hand corner was written in blue pencil a large letter “D.”

I said, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You are to give it to the president of the court before the end of the day, as discreetly as possible.”

“What is it?”

“You don’t need to know what it is. Just give it to him, Picquart, that’s all. And do try to be less defeatist.”

I took the envelope in with me to the afternoon session. I didn’t know where to put it. Under my seat? Beside it? In the end, I sat with it awkwardly on my lap as the defence called their character witnesses—a handful of officers, an industrialist, a physician, the Chief Rabbi of Paris in his Hebrew garb. Colonel Maurel, plainly feeling the effects of his piles, dealt with them briskly, especially the rabbi.

“Your name?”

“Dreyfuss—”

“Dreyfus? You are a relative?”

“No, a different family. We are Dreyfuss with two
s
’s. I am the Chief Rabbi of Paris.”

“Fascinating. What do you know about this case?”

“Nothing. But I have known the family of the accused for a long time and I consider it to be an honest family …”

Maurel fidgeted throughout his testimony. “Thank you. The witness may stand down. That concludes all the evidence in this case. Tomorrow we shall hear closing arguments. The court stands adjourned. Take the prisoner back to his cell.”

Dreyfus picked up his cap, stood, saluted, and was escorted out of the room. I waited until the judges began to file down from their platform, then approached Maurel. “Excuse me, Colonel,” I said quietly, “I have something for you, from the Minister of War.”

Maurel glanced at me irritably. He was a small, hunched figure, his complexion greenish-grey. He said, “That’s right, Major, I’ve been expecting it.” He slipped the envelope between his other papers and walked on without another word. As I turned to watch him go, I discovered Dreyfus’s attorney studying me. Demange frowned and pursed his lips, and for a moment I thought he was going to challenge me. I put my notebook away in my pocket, nodded at him, and walked straight past him.

When I recounted the episode to Mercier, he said, “I believe we did the right thing.”

“In the end it will be for the judges to evaluate,” I replied. “All you can do is to give them the full facts.”

“I presume I don’t need to remind you that no one outside our small group should know about this.” I half expected him to tell me what was in the file, but instead he picked up his pen and went back to his papers. His parting words were: “Be sure to inform General Boisdeffre I have done as we agreed.”

The following morning when I arrived in the rue du Cherche-Midi, a small crowd had already gathered. Extra gendarmes guarded the gate in case of trouble. Inside the courthouse twice the usual number of reporters milled around: one told me they had been promised that they would be allowed back into the courtroom to hear the verdict. I squeezed through the throng and went upstairs.

At nine, the final day’s session opened. Each of the seven judges was given a magnifying glass, a copy of the
bordereau
and a sample of Dreyfus’s writing. Brisset made an interminable speech for the prosecution. “Take your magnifying glass,” he instructed them, “and you will be certain that Dreyfus has written it.” The court rose for lunch. In the afternoon, an attendant turned on the gaslights, and in the encroaching dusk Demange began summing up for the defence. “Where is the proof?” he demanded. “No single shred of direct evidence links my client to this crime.” Maurel invited Dreyfus to make a short statement. He delivered it staring fixedly ahead: “I am a Frenchman and a man of Alsace above all else: I am no traitor.” And with that it was over, and Dreyfus was led away to await the verdict in a different part of the building.

Once the judges had retired, I went out into the courtyard to escape the oppressive atmosphere. It was just before six, desperately cold. Shadowed in the dim gaslight was a company of soldiers from the Paris garrison. By this time the authorities had closed the gates to the street. It felt like a fortress under siege. I could hear the crowd beyond the high wall, talking and moving in the darkness. I smoked a cigarette. A reporter said, “Did you notice the way Dreyfus missed every other step when they brought him downstairs? He doesn’t know where he is, poor wretch.” Another said, “I hope they’re done in time for the first edition.” “Oh, they will be, don’t worry—they’ll want their dinners.”

At half past six, an aide to the judges announced that the doors to the courtroom had been reopened. There was a stampede for
places. I followed the reporters back upstairs. Gonse, Henry, du Paty and Gribelin stood in a row together beside the door. Such was the nervous tension that their faces seemed scarcely less white than the wall. We nodded but didn’t speak. I reclaimed my seat and took out my notebook for the final time. There must have been close to a hundred people jammed into that confined space, yet they made barely a sound. The silence seemed subaqueous—to exert a physical pressure on one’s lungs and eardrums. I wanted desperately for it to be over. At seven, there was a shout from the corridor—“Shoulder arms! Present arms!”—followed by a thump of boots. The judges filed back in, led by Maurel.

“All rise!”

The clerk, Vallecalle, read the verdict. “In the name of the people of France,” he said, at which point all seven judges raised their hands to their caps in salute, “the first permanent court-martial of the military government of Paris, having met in camera, delivered its verdict in public session as follows …” When he pronounced the word “Guilty!” there was a shout from the back of the court of
“Vive la patrie!”
Reporters began running from the room.

Maurel said, “Maître Demange, you may go and inform the condemned man.”

The lawyer didn’t move. He had his head in his hands. He was crying.

A strange noise seemed to blow in from outside—an odd pattering and howling. I mistook it at first for rain or wind. Then I realised it was the crowd in the street reacting to the verdict with applause and cheering. “Down with the Jews!” “Death to the Jewish traitor!”

“Major Picquart to see the Minister of War …”

Past the sentry. Across the courtyard. Into the lobby. Up the stairs.

Mercier was standing in the middle of his office, wearing full dress uniform. His chest was armour-plated with medals and decorations. His English wife stood beside him in a blue velvet gown with diamonds at her throat. They both looked very small and dainty, like a pair of mannequins in an historical tableau.

I was breathless from my run, sweating despite the cold. “Guilty,” I managed to stammer out. “Deportation for life to a fortified enclosure.”

Madame Mercier’s hand flew straight to her breast. “The poor man,” she said.

The minister blinked at me but made no comment except to say, “Thank you for letting me know.”

I found Boisdeffre in his office, similarly bemedalled in dress uniform, about to depart for the same state banquet at the Élysée Palace as the Merciers. His only remark was, “At least I shall be able to dine in peace.”

Duty done, I ran out into the rue Saint-Dominique and managed, by the skin of my teeth, to hail a taxi. By eight-thirty I was slipping into my seat beside Blanche de Comminges at the Salle d’Harcourt. I looked around for Debussy but couldn’t see him. The conductor tapped his baton, the flautist raised his instrument to his lips, and those first few exquisite, plangent bars—which some say are the birth of modern music—washed Dreyfus clean from my mind.

I wait deliberately until the day is almost over before I go upstairs to see Gribelin. He looks startled to see me standing in his doorway for the second time in two days. He gets creakily to his feet. “Colonel?”

“Good evening, Gribelin. I want to see the secret file on Dreyfus, if you please.”

Is it my imagination or do I detect, as with Lauth, a pinprick of alarm in his eyes? He says, “I don’t have that particular file, Colonel, I’m afraid.”

“In that case I believe Major Henry must have it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because when I took over the section, Colonel Sandherr told me that if I ever had any questions about the Dreyfus file, I should consult Henry. I took that to mean that Henry was the one who had retained custody of it.”

“Well, obviously, if
Colonel Sandherr
said that …” Gribelin’s voice trails off. Then he adds hopefully, “I wonder, Colonel—given that Henry is on leave—I wonder, wouldn’t it be better to wait until he returns …?”

“Absolutely not. He won’t be back for several weeks and I need it right away.” I pause, waiting for him to move. “Come along, Monsieur Gribelin.” I hold out my arm to him. “I’m sure you have the keys to his office.”

I sense he would like to lie. But that would mean disobeying a direct order from a superior. And that is an act of rebellion of which Gribelin, unlike Henry, is congenitally incapable. He says, “Well, I suppose we can check …” He unlocks the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk and takes out his bunch of keys. Together we go downstairs.

Henry’s office overlooks the rue de l’Université. The smell of the drains seems stronger in the unaired room. A large fly knocks itself dementedly against the grimy window. There is the usual War Ministry–issue desk, chair, safe, filing cabinet and thin square of brown carpet. The only personal touches are a carved wooden tobacco jar in the shape of a dog’s head on the desk, an elaborately hideous German regimental beer stein on the windowsill and a photograph of Henry with some comrades in the uniform of the 2nd Zouaves in Hanoi: he was there at the same time as I was, although if we met I’ve forgotten it. Gribelin crouches to unlock the safe. He searches through the files. When he finds what he wants, he locks it again. As he straightens, his knees make a sound like snapping twigs. “Here you are, Colonel.”

It appears to be the same manila envelope with the letter “D” written in the corner that I handed to the president of the court-martial twenty months earlier, except that the seal has been broken. I weigh it in my hand. I remember thinking how light it was when du Paty gave it to me originally; it feels the same. “This is all there is?”

“That’s all. If you let me know when you’ve finished with it, I can lock it up again.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it from now on.”

Back in my office I lay the envelope on my desk and contemplate it for a moment. Odd that such a dreary-looking object should assume such significance. Do I really want to do this? Once one has read a thing, there is no un-reading it. There could be consequences—legal and ethical—that I can’t even guess at.

I lift the flap and pull out the contents. There are five documents.

I start with a handwritten deposition from Henry, providing the context for his theatrical testimony at the court-martial: