An Officer and a Spy

I make my way round the dining room shaking the hand of each man in turn. Mathieu covers mine with both of his. ‘My family and I cannot adequately express our gratitude to you, Colonel.’

There is something proprietorial about his warmth which makes me feel awkward, even chilly.

‘You have no reason to thank me,’ I reply. ‘I was simply obeying my conscience.’

The street outside is clear and I take advantage of the fact that I have temporarily shaken off my police tail to walk quickly along the boulevard Saint-Germain to the de Comminges house. I give my card to the footman and am shown into the library while he goes upstairs to announce me. A minute later the door is flung open and Blanche rushes in and flings her arms around me.

‘Darling Georges!’ she cries. ‘Do you realise you’re now the most famous person I know? We’re all in the drawing room having tea. Come along right now — I want to show you off!’

She tries to pull me after her, but I resist. ‘Is Aimery in?’

‘Yes, and he’ll be thrilled to see you. Come upstairs. I insist.’ She tugs at my hand again. ‘We want to hear everything!’

‘Blanche,’ I say gently, detaching her hand from my arm, ‘we need to talk in private, and I think perhaps Aimery should join us. Would you mind getting him?’

For the first time she sees that I am serious. She gives a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, Georges,’ she says, ‘this is too ominous!’ But she goes and fetches her brother.

Aimery saunters in, as young-looking as ever, wearing a well-cut grey suit and carrying two cups of tea. ‘Hello, Georges. I suppose if you won’t come to the samovar, the tea will have to come to you.’

And so the three of us sit by the fire, and while Aimery sips his tea and Blanche smokes one of her brightly coloured Turkish cigarettes, I describe how her name has been used on a fake telegram, almost certainly dreamed up by du Paty, sent to me in Tunisia. Her eyes gleam. She seems to think it a great adventure. Aimery, though, scents the danger at once.

‘Why would du Paty use Blanche’s name?’

‘Because she knows Germain Ducasse, and Ducasse worked for me on an intelligence operation against Esterhazy. And so it looks as though we’re all part of this imaginary “Jewish syndicate” that is working to free Dreyfus.’

‘It’s utterly ridiculous,’ says Blanche through a mouthful of smoke. ‘No one will believe it for an instant.’

Aimery asks, ‘Why use Blanche’s name? I also know Ducasse. Why not use mine?’ He sounds genuinely puzzled. He glances at me, and then at his sister. Neither of us can quite bring ourselves to meet his gaze. A few awkward seconds pass. Aimery is no fool. ‘Ah,’ he says quietly, nodding slowly, ‘I see.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ exclaims Blanche irritably, ‘you’re worse than Father! What does it matter?’

Aimery, who is suddenly very tense and silent, folds his arms and stares hard at the carpet, leaving it to me to explain: ‘I’m afraid it does matter, Blanche, because you’re bound to be questioned about the telegrams, and then it’s certain to reach the newspapers, and there will be a scandal.’

‘Let there be-’

Aimery interrupts her furiously: ‘Just be quiet, Blanche — for once! It doesn’t only concern you. It drags the whole family into the mess! Think of your mother. And don’t forget I’m a serving officer!’ He turns to me. ‘We’ll need to talk to our lawyers.’

‘Of course.’

‘In the meantime, I think it would be better if you didn’t come to this house or make any attempt to contact my sister.’

Blanche appeals to him: ‘Aimery. .’

I stand to leave. ‘I understand.’

‘I’m sorry, Georges,’ says Aimery. ‘That’s just the way it has to be.’

Christmas and the New Year pass, the former spent with the Gasts in Ville-d’Avray, the latter with Anna and Jules in the rue Cassette; Pauline stays in the south. I sell my Erard piano to a dealer for five thousand francs and send her the money.

Esterhazy’s court martial is fixed for Monday 10 January 1898. I am summoned to appear as a witness; so is Louis. But on the Friday before the hearing, his father finally succumbs to his long illness and dies in Strasbourg; Louis is excused to go home to his family.

‘I don’t know what I should do,’ he says.

‘My dear friend,’ I reply, ‘there is no doubt about it. Go and be with your family.’

‘But the trial. . You’ll be alone. .’

‘Frankly, it will make no difference to the outcome whether you are there or not. Go.’

On Monday, in the pre-dawn darkness, I rise early, don the pale blue tunic of the 4th Tunisian Rifles, pin on the ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and, trailed by a pair of plain-clothes police agents, make the familiar journey across Paris to the military court building in the rue Cherche-Midi.