An Officer and a Spy (36 page)

So it is with me after my visit from Gonse. I continue to come into the office at my usual hour as if I am still alive. I read reports. I correspond with agents. I hold meetings. I write my weekly
blanc
for the Chief of the General Staff: the Germans are planning military manoeuvres in Alsace-Moselle, they are making increasing use of dogs, they are laying a telephone cable at Bussang close to the border. But this is a dead man talking. The real direction of the Statistical Section has passed over the road to the ministry, where regular meetings now take place between Gonse and my officers Henry, Lauth and Gribelin. I hear them leaving. I listen to them coming back. They are up to something, but I cannot work out what.

My own options seem nonexistent. Obviously I cannot report what I know to my superiors, since I must assume they already know it. For a few days I consider appealing directly to the President, but
then I read his latest speech, delivered in the presence of General Billot—
The army is the nation’s heart and soul, the mirror in which France perceives the most ideal image of her self-denial and patriotism; the army holds the first place in the thoughts of the government and in the pride of the country
—and I realise that he would never take up arms on behalf of a despised Jew against “the nation’s heart and soul.” Obviously also I cannot share my discoveries with anyone outside the government—senator, judge, newspaper editor—without betraying our most secret intelligence sources. The same applies to the Dreyfus family; besides, the Sûreté is watching them night and day.

Above all, I recoil from the act of betraying the army:
my
heart and soul,
my
mirror,
my
ideal.

Paralysed, I wait for something to happen.

I notice it on a newsstand on the corner of the avenue Kléber early one morning in November, when I am on my way to work. I am just about to step off the kerb and it stops me dead: a facsimile of the
bordereau
printed slap in the middle of the front page of
Le Matin
.

I glance around at the people reading it in the street. My immediate instinct is to snatch their newspapers off them: don’t they realise this is a state secret? I buy a copy and retreat into a doorway. The full-size illustration is plainly taken from one of Lauth’s photographs. The article is headlined “The Proof”; its tone is unremittingly hostile to Dreyfus. Immediately it reads to me like the work of one of the prosecution’s handwriting experts. The timing is obvious. Lazare’s pamphlet,
A Judicial Error: The Truth About the Dreyfus Affair
, was published three days ago. It contains a violent attack on the graphologists. They have a professional motive to want everyone still to believe that Dreyfus was the author of the
bordereau;
more to the point, they have all hung on to their facsimiles.

I hail a cab to get to the office as quickly as possible. The atmosphere is funereal. Even though the report appears to vindicate Dreyfus’s conviction, it is a calamity for our section. Schwartzkoppen, like the rest of Paris, will be able to read the
bordereau
over his breakfast table; when he realises his private correspondence is in the
hands of the French government he will choke, and then presumably he will try to work out how it reached them. The long career of Agent Auguste may well be over. And what of Esterhazy? The thought of how he will react to seeing his handwriting emblazoned over the newsstands is the only aspect that gives me any pleasure, especially when Desvernine comes to see me late in the morning to report that he has just observed the traitor rushing bare-headed out of the apartment of Four-Fingered Marguerite into a rainstorm, “looking as if all the hands of hell were after him.”

I am summoned by General Billot. He sends a captain with a message that I am to come to his office at once.

I would like time to prepare for this ordeal. I say to the captain, “I’ll be there directly. Tell him I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry, Colonel. My orders are to escort you to him now.”

I collect my cap from the hatstand. When I step into the corridor I notice Henry loitering outside his office with Lauth. Something about their stance—some combination of shiftiness and curiosity and triumph—tells me that they knew beforehand that this summons was coming and wanted to watch me leave. We nod to one another politely.

The captain and I walk round to the street entrance of the hôtel de Brienne.

I have Colonel Picquart to see the Minister of War …

As we climb the marble staircase, I recall how I trotted up here so eagerly after Dreyfus’s degradation—the silent garden in the snow, Mercier and Boisdeffre warming the backs of their legs at the blazing fire, the delicate fingers smoothly turning the globe and picking out Devil’s Island …

Boisdeffre once again waits in the minister’s office. He is seated at the conference table with Billot and Gonse. Billot has a closed file in front of him. The three generals side by side make a sombre tribunal—a hanging committee.

The minister smooths his walrus moustaches and says, “Sit down, Colonel.”

I assume I am to be blamed for the leak of the
bordereau
, but Billot takes me by surprise. He begins without preliminaries: “An anonymous letter has been passed to us. It alleges that Major Esterhazy will shortly be denounced in the Chamber of Deputies as an accomplice of Dreyfus’s. Have you any idea where the author of this letter could have obtained the information that Esterhazy was under suspicion?”

“None.”

“I presume I don’t have to tell you that this represents a serious breach in the confidentiality of your inquiry?”

“Of course not. I’m appalled to hear of it.”

“It’s intolerable, Colonel!” His cheeks redden, his eyes pop. Suddenly he has become the choleric old general beloved of the cartoonists. “First the existence of the dossier is revealed! Then a copy of the
bordereau
is printed on the front page of a newspaper! And now this! Our inescapable conclusion is that you have developed an obsession—in fact a dangerous fixation—with substituting Major Esterhazy for Dreyfus, and that you are willing to go to any lengths to fulfil it, including leaking secret information to the press.”

Boisdeffre says, “It’s a very poor business, Picquart. Very poor. I’m disappointed in you.”

“I can assure you, General, I have never disclosed the existence of my inquiry to anyone, certainly not to Esterhazy. And I’ve never leaked information to the press. My inquiry is not a matter of personal obsession. I have simply followed a logical trail of evidence which leads to Esterhazy.”

“No, no, no!” Billot shakes his head. “You have disobeyed specific orders to keep clear of the Dreyfus business. You have gone around acting like a spy in your own department. I could call one of my orderlies now and have you taken to Cherche-Midi on a charge of insubordination.”

There is a pause, and then Gonse says, “If it really is a question of logic, Colonel, what would you do if we showed you cast-iron proof that Dreyfus was a spy?”

“If it were cast-iron, then obviously I’d accept it. But I don’t believe such proof can be found.”

“That is where you are wrong.”

Gonse glances at Billot, who opens the file. It appears to contain only a single sheet of paper.

Billot says, “We have recently intercepted a letter, via Agent Auguste, from Major Panizzardi to Colonel Schwartzkoppen. This is the relevant passage:
I have read that a deputy is going to ask questions about Dreyfus. If someone asks in Rome for new explanations, I will say that I have never had any dealings with this Jew. If someone asks you, say the same, for no one must ever know what happened to him
. It’s signed ‘Alexandrine.’ There,” says Billot, closing the file with great satisfaction, “what do you say about
that
?”

It is a forgery, of course. It has to be. I keep my composure. “When exactly did this reach us, may I ask?”

Billot turns to Gonse, who says, “Major Henry collected it in the usual way about two weeks ago. It was in French, so he pieced it together.”

“Could I see the original?”

Gonse bridles. “Why is that necessary?”

“Only that I would be interested in seeing what it looks like.”

Boisdeffre says, with great chilliness, “I would sincerely hope, Colonel Picquart, that you are not doubting the integrity of Major Henry. The message was retrieved and reconstructed—and that is that. We are sharing it with you now in the expectation that its existence will not be disclosed to the press, and that finally you will drop your pernicious insistence that Dreyfus is innocent. Otherwise the consequences for you will be grave.”

I stare from one general to the next. So this is what the army of France has sunk to. Either they are the greatest fools in Europe or the greatest villains: for the sake of my country I am not sure which is worse. But some instinct for self-preservation warns me not to fight them now; I must play dead.

I bow my head slightly. “If you are satisfied that it is authentic, then naturally I accept that it must be.”

Billot says, “Therefore you also must accept that Dreyfus is guilty?”

“If the document is authentic, then yes—he must be.”

There. It is done. I do not know what else I could have said at that moment that would have made any difference to Dreyfus’s plight.

Billot says, “In view of your previous record, Colonel, we are willing to suspend taking legal action against you, at least for the time being. We do, however, expect you to turn over all documents connected with the investigation of Major Esterhazy, including the
petit bleu
, to Major Henry. And you will proceed immediately to the depot at Châlons to begin your tour of inspection with the Sixth and Seventh Corps.”

Gonse is smiling again. “I’ll take all your office keys now, my dear Picquart, if I may. There’s no need for you to return to the section. Major Henry can take over the day-to-day running. You go straight home and pack.”

I fill a suitcase with enough clothes for three or four days. I ask the concierge to forward my mail to the Ministry of War. Then I just have sufficient time before my train leaves at seven to call on a few people to say goodbye.

Pauline is in the family’s apartment on the rue de la Pompe, supervising tea for the girls. She looks alarmed to see me. “Philippe will be back from the office any minute,” she whispers, half closing the door behind her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not coming in.” I stand on the landing with my suitcase beside me and tell her that I’m going away.

“For how long?”

“It should only be for a week or so, but if it turns out to be longer and you need to make contact, write to me care of the ministry—only be careful what you say.”

“Why? Is something the matter?”

“No, but precautions are always wise.” I kiss her hand and press it to my cheek.

“Maman!” shrills a voice behind her.

“You’d better go,” I say.

I take a cab to the boulevard Saint-Germain and ask the driver to wait. By now it is dark and the lights of the great house are bright
in the November gloom; there is an atmosphere of activity: Blanche will be holding one of her musical soirées later in the evening. “Stranger!” she greets me. “You’re far too early.”

“I won’t come in,” I say. “I’m afraid I have to leave Paris for a few days.” I repeat the instructions I’ve just given Pauline: if she needs to get in touch she should do so via the ministry, but she should try to be discreet. “Give my love to Aimery and Mathilde.”

“Oh, Georges!” she cries in delight, pinching my cheek and kissing the tip of my nose. “You are a mystery!”

When I climb back into my cab, I see her in the downstairs window, showing the musicians where to set up. I retain one final impression of chandeliers and a profusion of indoor plants, of Louis XIV chairs covered in rose-pale silk and of light gleaming on the polished spruce and maple of the instruments. Blanche is smiling at one of the violinists, pointing out where he should sit. The cabman flicks his whip and this vision of civilisation jerks out of sight.

My final call is on Louis Leblois. Again the driver waits; again I do not go in but stay on the landing to say my goodbyes. He has only just returned from court. He sees my anguish immediately.

“I suppose you can’t talk about it?”

“I fear not.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

As I get back into the cab, I glance along the rue de l’Université to the offices of the Statistical Section. The building is a patch of gloom even in the darkness. I notice that a taxi has parked about twenty paces behind us with the yellow light of the Poissonnière-Montmartre depot. It pulls away as we do, and when we arrive at the gare de l’Est, it stops a discreet distance away. I guess I must have been followed ever since I left my apartment. They aren’t taking any chances.

On a Morris column outside the station, amid the adverts and the multicoloured playbills of the Opéra-Comique and the Comédie-Française, is a poster showing the facsimile of the
bordereau
from
Le Matin
beside a sample of Dreyfus’s writing: placed together the two look very different. Mathieu has already paid for these posters to be plastered all over Paris. That was quick work! “Where Is the
Proof?” demands the headline. A reward is offered for anyone who recognises the original.

He is not going to give up
, I think,
not until his brother is either free or dead
. As I stow my suitcase in the overhead rack and settle into my seat on the crowded eastbound train, that thought, at least, gives me some hope.