An Officer and a Spy (47 page)

For several hours I wait, occasionally standing to pace the room to try to keep myself warm. More than ever, I wish Louis were with me.
If I had any doubts of it before, I have none now: this is not Esterhazy’s court-martial; it is mine.

By the time the clerk comes to fetch me, it is dark. Upstairs the court has been cleared of all civilians apart from the various lawyers. There are no outsiders. The atmosphere, in contrast to the freezing waiting room, is warm from the closely packed male bodies, almost clubbable; there is a drifting fug of tobacco smoke. Gonse, Henry, Lauth and the other officers of the Statistical Section watch me as I approach the judges’ bench. Behind General Luxer, who is the president of the court, sits Pellieux, of all people; and there to my left is Esterhazy, lounging back more or less as I remember him on the only other occasion I saw him, with his feet stretched out and his arms hanging loosely at his sides, as relaxed as if he were still in the nightclub in Rouen. I have time only for a sidelong glance, but I am struck again by the singularity of his appearance. The bald, oddly delicate round head cranes up to look at me; a glittering eye, like a falcon’s, focuses on me for an instant and then flickers away. He appears bored.

Luxer says, “State your name.”

“Marie-Georges Picquart.”

“Place of birth?”

“Strasbourg.”

“Age?”

“Forty-three.”

“When did the defendant first come to your attention?”

“About nine months after I was appointed chief of the secret intelligence section of the General Staff …”

In all, I testify for perhaps four hours—an hour or so in the darkness of that late January afternoon and three hours the following morning. Pointless to relate it all: it is Pellieux redux. Indeed, Pellieux himself, in defiance of all the rules of procedure, seems to be in control of the court-martial. He leans forward to whisper advice to the president of the judges. He asks me hectoring questions. And whenever I try to bring up the names of Mercier, Boisdeffre and Billot, he interrupts me and orders me to be silent: “These distinguished officers have no relevance whatever to the case of Major Esterhazy!” His methods are so heavy-handed that halfway through the Tuesday
morning session one of the judges asks the president of the court to intervene: “I see that Colonel Picquart is the true defendant here. I request that he be permitted to present all the explanations necessary to his defence.”

Pellieux scowls and briefly falls silent, but Esterhazy’s slippery young advocate, Maurice Tézenas, quickly takes over the attack: “Colonel Picquart, you have sought from the beginning to substitute my client for Dreyfus.”

“That is not true.”

“You forged the
petit bleu
.”

“No.”

“You conspired with your attorney, Maître Leblois, to blacken my client’s name.”

“No.”

“You showed him the secret file relating to the conviction of Dreyfus as part of a plot to undermine public confidence in the original verdict.”

“I did not.”

“Come now, Colonel—several witnesses yesterday testified to this very court that they saw you do it!”

“That is impossible. What witnesses?”

“Colonel Henry, Major Lauth and Monsieur Gribelin.”

I glance across the room to where they sit, impassive. “Well, they are mistaken.”

Tézenas says, “I request that these officers step forward and confront this witness.”

“Gentlemen, if you please.” Luxer beckons to them to approach the bench. Esterhazy watches with an air of utter indifference, as if he is attending a particularly tedious play, the ending of which he already knows. Luxer says, “Colonel Henry, is there any doubt in your mind that you saw Colonel Picquart show documents from the so-called secret dossier to Maître Leblois?”

“No, General. I went into his office late one afternoon about a departmental matter and he had the file on his desk. I recognised it at once because it has the initial letter ‘D’ on it, which I wrote there myself. The colonel had it open and was showing a particular document,
containing the words ‘that lowlife D,’ to his friend Monsieur Leblois. I saw it all, as plain as I see you now, General.”

I look at him in amazement: how is it possible to lie so brazenly? He stares back at me, entirely unfazed.

You order me to shoot a man and I’ll shoot him …

Luxer continues: “And so your testimony, Colonel Henry, is that you then went away and immediately described what you had seen to Major Lauth and Monsieur Gribelin?”

“I did. I was profoundly shocked by the whole thing.”

“And the two of you both still swear this conversation took place?”

Lauth says fervently, “Yes, General.”

“Absolutely, General,” confirms Gribelin. He darts a glance at me. “I might add that I, too, saw Colonel Picquart show the file to his friend.”

They have come to hate me, I realise, far more than they ever hated Dreyfus. I maintain my composure. “May I ask, Monsieur President, if Maître Leblois could come and give his opinion of this?”

Tézenas says, “I’m afraid, Monsieur President, that Maître Leblois is in Strasbourg.”

“No,” I say. “He returned late last night, accompanying the body of his father. He is waiting downstairs.”

Tézenas shrugs. “Is he? My apologies: I did not know.”

Louis is fetched. For a man in mourning, he is remarkably collected. Questioned about the meeting and the dossier, he confirms that there was no such meeting, no such file, “except for some nonsense about pigeons.” He turns to the bench. “Could the court ask Colonel Henry when this incident is alleged to have occurred?”

Luxer gestures to Henry, who says, “Yes, it was in September ’96.”

“Well that is quite impossible,” replies Louis, “because my father first fell ill in ’96 and I was in Strasbourg the entire period from August to November of that year. I am quite sure of this—indeed I can prove it, because it was a condition of my visa that I had to report daily to the German authorities throughout my stay.”

Luxer says, “Is it possible that you have made a mistake about the dates, Colonel Henry?”

Henry makes a pantomime of thinking this over, weighing his head from side to side. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible. It could have been sooner than that. Or perhaps it could have been later.”

“Or it could have been never at all,” I say, “because I didn’t take possession of the secret file until August, as Monsieur Gribelin can attest: it was he who retrieved it for me from Henry’s desk. And in October, General Gonse over there”—I point to him—“took the file away from me again. So this entire incident simply could not have happened.”

For the first time Henry stumbles, looks flustered. “Well, I’m not sure … I can only repeat what I saw …”

Pellieux comes to his rescue. “If I might make an observation, Monsieur President, at more than a year’s distance it is quite difficult to give a precise date …”

Luxer agrees. The session moves on. At lunchtime I am allowed to stand down.

Esterhazy’s lawyer takes five hours to make his closing speech. The hearing continues until eight o’clock at night. At one point during his advocate’s monologue Esterhazy seems to nod off, the bald cranium tilting back. When at last the judges rise to consider their verdict, he is led away past me, and gives me a stiff salute containing more than a hint of mockery. Mathieu Dreyfus, who has returned for the verdict and is sitting next to me, mutters, “What a rogue!” I get up with Louis to stretch my legs. I assume we will have several hours to wait. But less than five minutes later comes the cry of “Present arms!” and the doors reopen. The judges troop back in and the clerk reads out the verdict. “In the name of the people of France … the council declares unanimously … the accused is innocent … he leaves the court without a stain upon his honour …”

The rest of his words are lost in the volley of applause that cannonades around the stone walls. My brother officers stamp their feet. They clap. They cheer:
“Vive l’armée!” “Vive la France!”
and even “Death to the Jews!” The outcome was predetermined. I should not be shocked. And yet there are limits to how well the imagination
can prepare one for disaster. As Mathieu and I make our way out of the courtroom, pursued by jeers and insults—“Death to the syndicate!” “Death to Picquart!”—I feel as if I have tumbled deep into some mineshaft from which it will be impossible to clamber back. All is darkness—indeed, Dreyfus is actually worse off than he was six months ago, for he has now been doubly condemned. It is impossible to imagine the army holding a third hearing.

Outside, beyond the murkily lit courtyard, a crowd of more than a thousand has gathered, despite the cold. They are clapping rhythmically and chanting their hero’s name: “Es-ter
-ha
zy! Es-ter-
ha
zy!” All I want to do is get away. I walk towards the gate, but Louis and Mathieu restrain me. Louis says, “You mustn’t go out there yet, Georges. Your picture has been in the papers. You’ll be lynched.”

At that moment Esterhazy comes out of the court building, escorted by his lawyer, Henry and du Paty and followed by an applauding retinue of black-uniformed soldiers. Esterhazy’s face is transfigured, almost luminous with triumph. He wears a cape which he sweeps up onto his shoulder in a gesture of imperial magnificence, then steps out into the street. A terrific cheer goes up. Hands stretch out to pat his back. Someone shouts, “Hats off to the martyr of the Jews!”

Mathieu touches me on the arm. “Now we should go.” He takes off his overcoat and helps me put it on over my distinctive tunic. With my head down and with him on one side of me and Louis on the other, I push my way out into the rue Cherche-Midi and turn in the opposite direction to Esterhazy, moving quickly along the wet pavement towards the distant traffic.

The next day is the funeral of Louis’s father, Georges-Louis Leblois. A Lutheran pastor, a believer in scientific progress, a radical thinker who denied the divinity of Christ, the old man wished to be cremated. However, no such facilities exist in Strasbourg, therefore the ceremony has to take place in Paris at the new crematorium of Père-Lachaise. The silence of the immense cemetery, with its shaded alleys, and the grey city in the plain below reaching towards the blue
hills on the horizon make a profound impression on me. The mourners come up to me to commiserate on the previous day’s verdict, shaking my hand and speaking in low tones, so that it almost feels as if I am the one who has died and I am attending my own obsequies.

While this is going on, I discover later, General Billot is signing my arrest warrant, and when I return to my apartment I find a notification that I will be taken into custody the next day.

They come for me just before dawn. I am already dressed in civilian clothes, my suitcase packed. An elderly colonel, accompanied by a private soldier, knocks on my door and shows me a copy of the warrant from General Billot:
Colonel Picquart has been investigated for a serious breach of professional duties. He has committed grave errors in his service, contrary to army discipline. Therefore I have decided that he is to be held under arrest in the fortress of Mont-Valérien, until further orders
.

The colonel says, “Sorry to call so early, but we thought we’d try to avoid these ghastly newspaper people. May I take your service revolver, please?”

The manager of the building, Monsieur Reigneau, who lives several doors along the street, comes to see what all the noise is about. I pass him with my escort on the stairs. Afterwards he reveals to
Le Figaro
my parting words: “You see what is happening to me. But I am quite calm. You will have read in the papers all that they say about me. Continue to believe that I am an honest man.”

Drawn up outside is a large military carriage harnessed to two white horses. There has been a hard frost overnight. It is still dark. A red lamp from the building works opposite gleams faintly on the frozen puddles. The private takes my suitcase and clambers up next to the driver while the colonel politely opens the door and allows me to go first into the carriage. Nobody is in the street to witness my disgrace, apart from Reigneau. We turn left into the rue Copernic and head towards the place Victor Hugo. There are a few early risers queuing to buy newspapers on the corner of the roundabout, and even more further along at the kiosk on the place de L’Étoile. As we pass I catch a glimpse of a huge banner headline, “J’Accuse …!” and I say to the colonel, “If a condemned man is allowed a final request, do you think we might stop for a newspaper?”

“A
newspaper
?” The colonel looks at me as if I am mad. “Well, I suppose so, if you must.”

He calls up to the driver to pull over. I get out and walk back towards the vendor. The private soldier trails behind me at a discreet distance; ahead the sky is just beginning to lighten above the avenue du Bois de Boulogne, silhouetting the bare tops of the trees. The paper everyone is queuing to buy is Clemenceau’s
L’Aurore
, and the headline, spread across the top of all six columns, is:

J’Accuse…!

LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC
BY ÉMILE ZOLA

I join the queue to buy a copy and walk slowly back towards the carriage. There is just enough light from the streetlamps for me to make it out. The piece takes up the entire front page, thousands of words of polemic, cast in the form of a letter to President Fauré (
Knowing your integrity, I am convinced that you are unaware of the truth
…). I skim it with increasing astonishment.