An Officer and a Spy (2 page)

I march to the middle of the carpet and salute.

Mercier has an oddly creased and immobile face, like a leather mask. Occasionally I have the odd illusion that another man is watching me through its narrow eye-slits. He says in his quiet voice, “Well, Major Picquart, that didn’t take long. What time did it finish?”

“Half an hour ago, General.”

“So it really is all over?”

I nod. “It’s over.”

And so it begins.

“Come and sit down by the fire,” orders the minister. He speaks very quietly, as he always does. He indicates a gilt chair. “Pull it up. Take off your coat. Tell us everything that happened.”

He sits poised in expectation on the edge of his seat: his body bent forwards, his hands clasped, his forearms resting on his knees. Protocol has prevented him from attending the morning’s spectacle in person. He is in the position of an impresario who has missed his own show. He hungers for details: insights, observations, colour.

“What was the mood on the streets first thing?”

“I would say the mood was … expectant.”

I describe how I left my apartment in the predawn darkness to walk to the École Militaire, and how the streets, to begin with at least, were unusually quiet, it being a Saturday—“The Jewish Sabbath,” Mercier interrupts me, with a faint smile—and also freezing cold. In fact, although I do not mention this, as I passed along the gloomy pavements of the rue Boissière and the avenue du Trocadéro, I began to wonder if the minister’s great production might turn out to be a flop. But then I reached the pont de l’Alma and saw the shadowy crowd pouring across the dark waters of the Seine, and that was when I realised what Mercier must have known all along: that the human impulse to watch another’s humiliation will always prove sufficient insulation against even the bitterest cold.

I joined the multitude as they streamed southwards, over the river and down the avenue Bosquet—such a density of humanity that they spilled off the wooden pavements and into the street. They reminded me of a racecourse crowd—there was the same sense of shared anticipation, of the common pursuit of a classless pleasure. Newspaper vendors threaded back and forth selling the morning’s editions. An aroma of roasting chestnuts rose from the braziers on the roadside.

At the bottom of the avenue I broke away and crossed over to the École Militaire, where until a year before I had served as professor of topography. The crowd streamed on past me towards the official assembly point in the place de Fontenoy. It was beginning to get light. The École rang with the sound of drums and bugles, hooves and curses, shouted orders, the tramp of boots. Each of the nine infantry regiments quartered in Paris had been ordered to send two companies to witness the ceremony, one composed of experienced men, the other of new recruits whose moral fibre, Mercier felt, would benefit by this example. As I passed through the grand salons and entered the cour Morland, they were already mustering in their thousands on the frozen mud.

I have never attended a public execution, have never tasted that particular atmosphere, but I imagine it must feel something like the École did that morning. The vastness of the cour Morland provided an appropriate stage for a grand spectacle. In the distance, beyond the railings, in the semicircle of the place de Fontenoy, a great murmuring sea of pink faces stirred behind a line of black-uniformed gendarmes. Every centimetre of space was filled. People were standing on benches and on the tops of carriages and omnibuses; they were sitting in the branches of the trees; one man had even managed to scale the pinnacle of the 1870 war memorial.

Mercier, drinking all this up, asks me, “So how many were present, would you estimate?”

“The Préfecture of Police assured me twenty thousand.”

“Really?” The minister looks less impressed than I had expected. “You know that I originally wanted to hold the ceremony at Longchamps? The racetrack has a capacity of
fifty
thousand.”

Boisdeffre says flatteringly, “And you would have filled it, Minister, by the sound of it.”

“Of course we would have filled it! But the Ministry of the Interior maintained there was risk of public disorder. Whereas I say: the greater the crowd, the stronger the lesson.”

Still, twenty thousand seemed plenty to me. The noise of the crowd was subdued but ominous, like the breathing of some powerful animal, temporarily quiescent but which could turn dangerous in an instant. Just before eight, an escort of cavalry appeared, trotting along the front of the crowd, and suddenly the beast began to stir, for between the riders could be glimpsed a black prison wagon drawn by four horses. A wave of jeers swelled and rolled over it. The cortège slowed, a gate was opened, and the vehicle and its guard clattered over the cobbles into the École.

As I watched it disappear into an inner courtyard, a man standing near to me said, “Observe, Major Picquart: the Romans fed Christians to the lions; we feed them Jews. That is progress, I suppose.”

He was swaddled in a greatcoat with the collar turned up, a grey muffler around his throat, his cap pulled low over his eyes. I recognised him by his voice at first, and then by the way his body shook uncontrollably.

I saluted. “Colonel Sandherr.”

Sandherr said, “Where will you stand to watch the show?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You’re welcome to come and join me and my men.”

“That would be an honour. But first I have to check that everything is proceeding in accordance with the minister’s instructions.”

“We will be over there when you have finished your duties.” He pointed across the cour Morland with a trembling hand. “You will have a good view.”

My duties! I wonder, looking back, if he wasn’t being sarcastic. I walked over to the garrison office, where the prisoner was in the custody of Captain Lebrun-Renault of the Republican Guard. I had no desire to see the condemned man again. Only two years earlier he had been a student of mine in this very building. Now I had nothing to say to him; I felt nothing for him; I wished he had never been born and I wanted him gone—from Paris, from France, from Europe.
A trooper went and fetched Lebrun-Renault for me. He turned out to be a big, red-faced, horsey young man, rather like a policeman. He came out and reported: “The traitor is nervous but calm. I don’t think he will kick up any trouble. The threads of his clothing have been loosened and his sword has been scored half through to ensure it breaks easily. Nothing has been left to chance. If he tries to make a speech, General Darras will give a signal and the band will strike up a tune to drown him out.”

Mercier muses, “What kind of tune does one play to drown a man out, I wonder?”

Boisdeffre suggests, “A sea shanty, Minister?”

“That’s good,” says Mercier judiciously. But he doesn’t smile; he rarely smiles. He turns to me again. “So you watched the proceedings with Sandherr and his men. What do you make of them?”

Unsure how to answer—Sandherr is a colonel, after all—I say cautiously, “A dedicated group of patriots, doing invaluable work and receiving little or no recognition.”

It is a good answer. So good that perhaps my entire life—and with it the story I am about to tell—may have turned upon it. At any rate, Mercier, or the man behind the mask that is Mercier, gives me a searching look as if to check that I really mean what I say, and then nods in approval. “You’re right there, Picquart. France owes them a lot.”

All six of these paragons were present that morning to witness the culmination of their work: the euphemistically named “Statistical Section” of the General Staff. I sought them out after I had finished talking with Lebrun-Renault. They stood slightly apart from everyone else in the southwest corner of the parade ground, in the lee of one of the low surrounding buildings. Sandherr had his hands in his pockets and his head down, and seemed entirely remote—

“Do you remember,” interrupts the Minister of War, turning to Boisdeffre, “that they used to call Jean Sandherr ‘the handsomest man in the French Army’?”

“I do remember that, Minister,” confirms the Chief of the General Staff. “It’s hard to believe it now, poor fellow.”

On one side of Sandherr stood his deputy, a plump alcoholic with
a face the colour of brick, taking regular nips from a gunmetal hip flask; on the other was the only member of his staff I knew by sight—the massive figure of Joseph Henry, who clapped me on the shoulder and boomed that he hoped I’d be mentioning him in my report to the minister. The two junior officers of the section, both captains, seemed colourless by comparison. There was also a civilian, a bony clerk who looked as if he seldom saw fresh air, holding a pair of opera glasses. They shifted along to make room for me and the alcoholic offered me a swig of his filthy cognac. Presently we were joined by a couple of other outsiders: a smart official from the Foreign Ministry, and that disturbing booby Colonel du Paty de Clam of the General Staff, his monocle flashing like an empty eye socket in the morning light.

By now the time was drawing close and one could feel the tension tightening under that sinister pale sky. Nearly four thousand soldiers had been drawn up on parade, yet not a sound escaped them. Even the crowd was hushed. The only movement came from the edges of the cour Morland, where a few invited guests were still being shown to their places, hurrying apologetically like latecomers at a funeral. A tiny slim woman in a white fur hat and muff, carrying a frilly blue umbrella and being escorted by a tall lieutenant of the dragoons, was recognised by some of the spectators nearest the railings, and a light patter of applause, punctuated by cries of “Hurrah!” and “Bravo!,” drifted over the mud.

Sandherr, looking up, grunted, “Who the devil is that?”

One of the captains took the opera glasses from the clerk and trained them on the lady in furs, who was now nodding and twirling her umbrella in gracious acknowledgement to the crowd.

“Well I’ll be damned if it isn’t the Divine Sarah!” He adjusted the binoculars slightly. “And that’s Rochebouet of the Twenty-eighth looking after her, the lucky devil!”

Mercier sits back and caresses his white moustache. Sarah Bernhardt, appearing in his production! This is the stuff he wants from me: the artistic touch, the society gossip. Still, he pretends to be displeased. “I can’t think who would have invited
an actress
…”

At ten minutes to nine, the commander of the parade, General
Darras, rode out along the cobbled path into the centre of the parade ground. The general’s mount snorted and dipped her head as he pulled her up; she shuffled round in a circle, eyeing the vast multitude, pawed the hard ground once, and then stood still.

At nine, the clock began to strike and a command rang out: “Companies! Attention!” In thunderous unison the boots of four thousand men crashed together. At the same instant, from the far corner of the parade ground a group of five figures appeared and advanced towards the general. As they came closer, the tiny indistinct shapes resolved themselves into an escort of four gunners, surrounding the condemned man. They came on at a smart pace, marching with such perfect timing that their right feet hit the stroke of the chime exactly on every fifth step; only once did the prisoner stumble, but quickly he corrected himself. As the echo of the last strike died away, they halted and saluted. Then the gunners about-turned and marched away, leaving the convict to face the general alone.

Drums rolled. A bugle sounded. An official stepped forward, holding a sheet of paper up high in front of his face, like a herald in a play. The proclamation flapped in the icy wind, but his voice was surprisingly powerful for so small a man.

“In the name of the people of France,” he intoned, “the first permanent court-martial of the military government of Paris, having met in camera, delivered its verdict in public session as follows. The following single question was put to the members of the court: Is Alfred Dreyfus, captain of the Fourteenth Artillery Regiment, a certified General Staff officer and probationer of the army’s General Staff, guilty of delivering to a foreign power or to its agents in Paris in 1894 a certain number of secret or confidential documents concerning national defence?

“The court declared unanimously: ‘Yes, the accused is guilty.’

“The court unanimously sentences Alfred Dreyfus to the penalty of deportation to a fortified enclosure for life, pronounces the discharge of Captain Alfred Dreyfus, and orders that his military degradation should take place before the first military parade of the Paris garrison.”

He stepped back. General Darras rose in his stirrups and drew his sword. The condemned man had to crane his neck to look up at him. His pince-nez had been taken from him. He wore a pair of rimless spectacles.

“Alfred Dreyfus, you are not worthy to bear arms. In the name of the French people, we degrade you!”

“And it was at this point,” I tell Mercier, “that the prisoner spoke for the first time.”

Mercier jerks back in surprise.
“He spoke?”

“Yes.” I pull my notebook from my trouser pocket. “He raised both his arms above his head, and shouted …” And here I check to make sure I have it exactly right: “ ‘Soldiers, they are degrading an innocent man … Soldiers, they are dishonouring an innocent man … Long live France … Long live the army …’ ” I read it plainly, without emotion, which is appropriate, because that is how it was delivered. The only difference is that Dreyfus, as a Mulhouse Jew, flavoured the words with a slight German accent.

The minister frowns. “How was this allowed to happen? I thought you said they planned to play a march if the prisoner made a speech?”

“General Darras took the view that a few shouts of protest did not constitute a speech, and that music would disturb the gravity of the occasion.”

“And was there any reaction from the crowd?”

“Yes.” I check my notes again. “They began to chant: ‘Death … death … death …’ ”

When the chanting started, we looked towards the railings. Sandherr said: “They need to get a move on, or this could get out of hand.”

I asked to borrow the opera glasses. I raised them to my eyes, adjusted the focus, and saw a giant of a man, a sergeant major of the Republican Guard, lay his hands on Dreyfus. In a series of powerful movements he yanked the epaulettes from Dreyfus’s shoulders, wrenched all the buttons from his tunic and the gold braid from his sleeves, knelt and ripped the red stripes from his trousers. I focused on Dreyfus’s expression. It was blank. He stared ahead as he was tugged this way and that, submitting to these indignities as a child might to having its clothes adjusted by an irritable adult. Finally, the
sergeant major drew Dreyfus’s sword from its scabbard, planted the tip in the mud, and snapped the blade with a thrust of his boot. He threw the two halves on to the little heap of haberdashery at Dreyfus’s feet, took two sharp paces backwards, turned his head towards the general and saluted, while Dreyfus gazed down at the torn symbols of his honour.