An Officer and a Spy (46 page)

——

A fine lunch is served in the dining room, but I spend too much time talking to eat very much. I tell my fellow guests that I need to say my piece and leave; that every minute we spend together increases the chances that our meeting will be discovered. “Monsieur Charpentier may believe his servants are above acting as informants for the Sûreté, but regrettably experience has taught me otherwise.”

“It has certainly taught me,” adds Mathieu Dreyfus.

I bow to him. “My apologies for that.”

Opposite my place hangs a large portrait of Charpentier’s wife and children by Renoir, and from time to time as I recount my story my gaze wanders up to it and I experience that strange feeling of disconnection that can sometimes afflict me when I talk to a group of people. I tell them that they ought to take a look at a certain Colonel Armand du Paty de Clam, who was the officer who first interrogated Dreyfus and whose lurid imagination has shaped so much of the affair. I describe the methods of interrogation he used, which amounted almost to torture. And then there was my predecessor, Colonel Sandherr, a sick man who became convinced, wrongly, that the spy must be on the General Staff. I say that the greatest public misconception is that what was handed over to the Germans was of crucial military importance, whereas really it was the merest trivia. Yet the treatment of Dreyfus—the secret trial, the degradation, the imprisonment on Devil’s Island—has been so extreme the world has somehow become convinced that the very existence of France must have been at stake. “People say to one another, ‘There has to be more to it than meets the eye,’ when the truth is there is less. And the longer this scandal goes on, the more colossal and absurd becomes the discrepancy in size between the original crime and the monumental efforts to cover up the judicial error.”

At the far end of the table I see Zola taking notes. I pause for a sip of wine. One of the children in the Renoir is sitting on a large dog. The pattern of the dog’s fur echoes the colouring of Madame Charpentier’s dress, and thus what seems a natural pose is actually artfully contrived.

I go on. Without revealing classified information, I tell them how I discovered the real traitor, Esterhazy, more than twenty months ago, and how Boisdeffre and especially Billot were initially supportive of my inquiry, but then how completely they changed their view when they realised it would mean reopening the Dreyfus case. I recount my exile to Tunisia, the General Staff’s attempt to send me on a suicide mission, and the way they are using the forgeries and false testimony presented to General Pellieux’s inquiry to frame me just as they framed Dreyfus. “We have arrived at the ludicrous position, gentlemen, of the army being so determined to keep an innocent man imprisoned that they are actively helping the guilty man to evade punishment, and are perfectly willing to put me out of the way too—for good, if necessary.”

Zola says, “It’s fantastical! The most astonishing story there has ever been.”

Ranc says, “It makes one ashamed to be French.”

Clemenceau, who is also taking notes, says, without looking up, “So who are the senior members of the military hierarchy most culpable, Colonel Picquart, in your opinion?”

“Among the senior ranks I would pick out the five generals: Mercier, Boisdeffre, Gonse, Billot and now Pellieux, who is running a cover-up disguised as an inquiry.”

Mathieu Dreyfus interjects, “And what do you think will happen to you now, Colonel?”

I light a cigarette. “I would imagine,” I say, twirling the match and extinguishing it with as much nonchalance as I can summon, “that after Esterhazy is formally cleared of all charges, they will discharge me from the army and put me in prison.”

There is a muttering of disbelief around the table. Clemenceau says, “But surely even the General Staff wouldn’t be that stupid?”

“I fear they’ve trapped themselves in a position where their logic doesn’t leave them much alternative. If Esterhazy is innocent—as they are determined to find him, in order to avoid reopening the Dreyfus case—then it follows that the campaign against him is a wicked conspiracy; and as I am the one ultimately responsible for that campaign, I must be punished.”

Reinach says, “So what is it you would like us to do, Colonel?”

“That is not really for me to say. I’ve told you as much as I can, without disclosing national secrets. I can’t write an article or publish a book myself—I’m still subject to army discipline. What I do believe is that somehow this affair must be taken out of the jurisdiction of the military and elevated to a higher plane—the details need to be assembled into a coherent narrative, so that everything can be seen for the first time in its proper proportions.” I nod to the Renoir and then glance at Zola. “Reality must be transformed into a work of art, if you will.”

“It already is a work of art, Colonel,” he replies. “All that is required is an angle of attack.”

——

Before the hour is up, I stub out my cigarette and rise to my feet. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I should be the first to leave. It would be better if everyone departed at intervals, perhaps of ten minutes? Please don’t get up.” I turn to Charpentier: “Is there a back way out of the house?”

“Yes,” he says, “there’s a garden gate. You can get down to it through the kitchen. I’ll take you myself.”

“I’ll fetch your things,” says Louis.

I make my way round the dining room shaking the hand of each man in turn. Mathieu covers mine with both of his. “My family and I cannot adequately express our gratitude to you, Colonel.”

There is something proprietorial about his warmth which makes me feel awkward, even chilly.

“You have no reason to thank me,” I reply. “I was simply obeying my conscience.”

The street outside is clear and I take advantage of the fact that I have temporarily shaken off my police tail to walk quickly along the boulevard Saint-Germain to the de Comminges house. I give my card to the footman and am shown into the library while he goes upstairs to announce me. A minute later the door is flung open and Blanche rushes in and flings her arms around me.

“Darling Georges!” she cries. “Do you realise you’re now the most
famous person I know? We’re all in the drawing room having tea. Come along right now—I want to show you off!”

She tries to pull me after her, but I resist. “Is Aimery in?”

“Yes, and he’ll be thrilled to see you. Come upstairs. I insist.” She tugs at my hand again. “We want to hear everything!”

“Blanche,” I say gently, detaching her hand from my arm, “we need to talk in private, and I think perhaps Aimery should join us. Would you mind getting him?”

For the first time she sees that I am serious. She gives a nervous laugh. “Oh, Georges,” she says, “this is too ominous!” But she goes and fetches her brother.

Aimery saunters in, as young-looking as ever, wearing a well-cut grey suit and carrying two cups of tea. “Hello, Georges. I suppose if you won’t come to the samovar, the tea will have to come to you.”

And so the three of us sit by the fire, and while Aimery sips his tea and Blanche smokes one of her brightly coloured Turkish cigarettes, I describe how her name has been used on a fake telegram, almost certainly dreamed up by du Paty, sent to me in Tunisia. Her eyes gleam. She seems to think it a great adventure. Aimery, though, scents the danger at once.

“Why would du Paty use Blanche’s name?”

“Because she knows Germain Ducasse, and Ducasse worked for me on an intelligence operation against Esterhazy. And so it looks as though we’re all part of this imaginary ‘Jewish syndicate’ that is working to free Dreyfus.”

“It’s utterly ridiculous,” says Blanche through a mouthful of smoke. “No one will believe it for an instant.”

Aimery asks, “Why use Blanche’s name? I also know Ducasse. Why not use mine?” He sounds genuinely puzzled. He glances at me, and then at his sister. Neither of us can quite bring ourselves to meet his gaze. A few awkward seconds pass. Aimery is no fool. “Ah,” he says quietly, nodding slowly, “I see.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” exclaims Blanche irritably, “you’re worse than Father! What does it matter?”

Aimery, who is suddenly very tense and silent, folds his arms and stares hard at the carpet, leaving it to me to explain: “I’m afraid it
does matter, Blanche, because you’re bound to be questioned about the telegrams, and then it’s certain to reach the newspapers, and there will be a scandal.”

“Let there be—”

Aimery interrupts her furiously: “Just be quiet, Blanche—for once! It doesn’t only concern you. It drags the whole family into the mess! Think of your mother. And don’t forget I’m a serving officer!” He turns to me. “We’ll need to talk to our lawyers.”

“Of course.”

“In the meantime, I think it would be better if you didn’t come to this house or make any attempt to contact my sister.”

Blanche appeals to him: “Aimery …”

I stand to leave. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry, Georges,” says Aimery. “That’s just the way it has to be.”

Christmas and the New Year pass, the former spent with the Gasts in Ville-d’Avray, the latter with Anna and Jules in the rue Cassette; Pauline stays in the south. I sell my Erard piano to a dealer for five thousand francs and send her the money.

Esterhazy’s court-martial is fixed for Monday, 10 January 1898. I am summoned to appear as a witness; so is Louis. But on the Friday before the hearing, his father finally succumbs to his long illness and dies in Strasbourg; Louis is excused to go home to his family.

“I don’t know what I should do,” he says.

“My dear friend,” I reply, “there is no doubt about it. Go and be with your family.”

“But the trial … You’ll be alone …”

“Frankly, it will make no difference to the outcome whether you are there or not. Go.”

On Monday, in the predawn darkness, I rise early, don the pale blue tunic of the 4th Tunisian Rifles, pin on the ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and, trailed by a pair of plainclothes police agents, make the familiar journey across Paris to the military court building in the rue Cherche-Midi.

The day is hostile from the start: cold, grey, spitting rain. In the street between the prison and the courthouse a dozen gendarmes stand dripping in their caps and capes, but there are no crowds for them to control. I walk over the slippery cobbled forecourt into the same bleak ex-nunnery in which Dreyfus was tried more than three years ago. A captain of the Republican Guard shows me into a holding room for witnesses. I am the first to arrive. It is a small whitewashed chamber with a single barred window set above head height, a flagstone floor and hard wooden chairs ranged around the sides. A coal-burner in the corner barely suffices to take the edge off the chill. Above it is a picture of Christ with a glowing index finger raised in benediction.

A few minutes later the door opens and Lauth sticks his blond head around the corner. I see from his uniform he has been promoted to major. He takes one look at me and hastily withdraws. Five minutes later he comes back in with Gribelin and they go over to the corner furthest away from me. They don’t look once in my direction.
Why are they here?
I wonder. Then two more of my former officers show up. The same procedure: straight past me and into the corner huddle. Du Paty marches through the door as if he expects a band to strike up a tune at his entrance, whereas Gonse sidles in, smoking his inevitable cigarette. All keep their backs to me except for Henry, who enters loudly, banging the door, and nods as he passes.

“You have a good colour, Colonel,” he says cheerfully. “It must be all that African sunshine!”

“And yours must be all that cognac.”

He roars with laughter and goes to sit with the others.

Gradually the room fills up with witnesses. My old friend Major Curé of the 74th Infantry Regiment carefully ignores me. I recognise the Vice President of the Senate, Auguste Scheurer-Kestner, who offers me his hand and murmurs quietly, “Well done.” Mathieu Dreyfus enters with a slim, quiet, dark-haired young woman on his arm, dressed entirely in widow’s black. She seems so young I assume she must be his daughter, but then he introduces her: “This is Madame Lucie Dreyfus, Alfred’s wife. Lucie, this is Colonel Picquart.” She gives me a faint smile of recognition but doesn’t say anything, and
nor do I. I feel uncomfortable, remembering those intimate, passionate letters of hers—
Live for me, I entreat you …
On the other side of the room du Paty eyes her keenly through his monocle and whispers something to Lauth: there was a story that he made a pass at her when he went to search her apartment after Dreyfus was arrested; I can believe it.

And so we sit, the military on one side of the room and I with the civilians, listening to the sounds of the proceedings getting under way above us: the thump of feet climbing the stairs, the cry of “Present arms!” as the judges arrive, and then a long interval of silence during which we wait for news. Eventually the clerk of the court appears and announces that the civil suits brought by the Dreyfus family have been rejected, and that therefore there will be no reconsideration of the original court-martial verdict, which stands. Also, the judges have voted by a majority that all the evidence given by military personnel will be heard in secret. Thus we have lost the battle before it even starts. With a practised stoicism, Lucie rises, expressionless, embraces Mathieu and leaves.

Another hour passes, during which presumably Esterhazy is being questioned, and then the clerk returns and calls, “Monsieur Mathieu Dreyfus!” As the original complainant against Esterhazy to the Minister of War, he has the privilege of going first. He does not return. Forty-five minutes later Scheurer-Kestner is called. He does not return either. In this way the room gradually empties of its various handwriting experts and officers until at last, in the middle of the afternoon, Gonse and the men of the Statistical Section are all summoned en bloc. They file out, every one of them avoiding eye contact, except for Gonse, who at the last minute pauses on the threshold to look back at me. I cannot fathom his expression. Is it hatred, pity, bafflement, regret, or all of these? Or is it that he just wants to carry one last image of me in his mind before I disappear for ever? He stares for several seconds, and then he turns on his heel and the door closes, leaving me alone.