An Officer and a Spy

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.