An Officer and a Spy

At that moment the taxi pulls up, and even before the door is opened we are surrounded by reporters. Mercier-Milon clambers out and descends into the melee, using his elbows to clear a path. I follow, and once I reach the lobby the concierge puts his arms across the entrance to prevent anyone following us in. On the marble floor, beneath the lurid diamanté chandeliers, Périer is already waiting to rush me straight upstairs. I turn to thank Mercier-Milon for his warning, but he has already gone.

I am not allowed to eat downstairs in public. I don’t protest: I have no appetite in any case. Dinner is brought up to our room and I push a piece of veal around my plate with my fork until I give up in disgust. Just after nine, a bellboy delivers a letter that has been left for me at reception. On the envelope I recognise Louis’s writing. I’d like to read what he has to say. I suspect he wants to warn me of something before tomorrow’s hearing. But I don’t want to give Pellieux any excuse to bring fresh disciplinary charges against me. So I burn it, unopened, in the grate in front of Périer.

That night I lie awake listening to Périer snoring in the other bed and try to calculate the weakness of my position. It seems to me precarious whichever way I look at it. I have been delivered to my enemies trussed hand and foot by the tiny threads of a hundred lies and innuendos carefully spun out over the past year. Most people will be only too happy to believe I work for a Jewish syndicate. And as long as the army is allowed to investigate its own misdeeds I see no hope of escape. Henry and Gonse can simply invent whatever ‘absolute proof’ they require and then show it privately to the likes of Pellieux, safe in the knowledge that such loyal staff officers will always do what is expected of them.

Outside in the rue Saint-Lazare even at midnight there is a greater profusion of motor cars than I have ever heard before. The sound of pneumatic tyres on wet asphalt is new to me, like a continual tearing of paper, and eventually it lulls me to sleep.

The next morning when he comes to pick me up, Mercier-Milon has reverted to his former brusque silence. His only comment is to tell me to bring my suitcase: I will not be returning to the hotel.

In the place Vendôme, in the room set aside for the inquiry, Pellieux and the others are in exactly the same positions as when I left them, as if they have spent the night under dust sheets, and the general resumes where he left off as though there had been no interruption. ‘Tell us once again, if you would, the circumstances in which you came into possession of the petit bleu. .’

This goes on for another hour or so, and then he says, without any change of tone, ‘Madame Monnier — how much of your work have you disclosed to her?’

My throat tightens immediately. ‘Madame Monnier?’

‘Yes, the wife of Monsieur Philippe Monnier of the Foreign Ministry. What have you told her?’

I say in a strained voice, ‘General — please — I insist — she has nothing to do with this.’

‘That is not for you to determine.’ He turns to the secretary. ‘Colonel Picquart’s documents, please.’ And while the secretary opens his dispatch box, Pellieux switches his attention back to me. ‘You will probably not be aware of the fact, Colonel, because you were at sea, but an official search was carried out of your apartment on Tuesday, following an allegation by Major Esterhazy that you were keeping official papers there.’

For a moment I can only gape at him. ‘No, I most certainly was not aware of it, General. And if I had been I would have protested strongly. Who authorised this raid?’

‘I did, at the request of Colonel Henry. Major Esterhazy claims to have received information from a woman whose name he does not know but who swears that she is an acquaintance of yours. This woman, whom he has only seen heavily veiled, says that you have been keeping secret documents relating to his case at your private address.’

It is such an absurd idea, Pauline and Esterhazy together, that I find myself emitting a gasp of laughter. But then the secretary places several bundles of letters in front of Pellieux and I recognise them as my private correspondence: old letters from my mother and my dead brother; correspondence from my family and friends; business letters and love letters; invitations and telegrams kept for their sentimental value. ‘This is an outrage!’

‘Come now, Colonel — why such sensitivity? I don’t believe we have taken any action against you that you haven’t taken against Major Esterhazy. Now,’ he says, picking up a collection of Pauline’s letters tied with a blue silk ribbon, ‘it’s apparent from the nature of her letters to you that you have an intimate relationship with Madame Monnier — one that I assume her husband is not aware of?’

My face is burning now. ‘I absolutely refuse to answer that question.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that my relationship with Madame Monnier has no conceivable relevance to this inquiry.’