An Officer and a Spy

Louis is fetched. For a man in mourning, he is remarkably collected. Questioned about the meeting and the dossier, he confirms that there was no such meeting, no such file, ‘except for some nonsense about pigeons’. He turns to the bench. ‘Could the court ask Colonel Henry when this incident is alleged to have occurred?’

Luxer gestures to Henry, who says, ‘Yes, it was in September ’96.’

‘Well that is quite impossible,’ replies Louis, ‘because my father first fell ill in ’96 and I was in Strasbourg the entire period from August to November of that year. I am quite sure of this — indeed I can prove it, because it was a condition of my visa that I had to report daily to the German authorities throughout my stay.’

Luxer says, ‘Is it possible that you have made a mistake about the dates, Colonel Henry?’

Henry makes a pantomime of thinking this over, weighing his head from side to side. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s possible. It could have been sooner than that. Or perhaps it could have been later.’

‘Or it could have been never at all,’ I say, ‘because I didn’t take possession of the secret file until August, as Monsieur Gribelin can attest: it was he who retrieved it for me from Henry’s desk. And in October, General Gonse over there’ — I point to him — ‘took the file away from me again. So this entire incident simply could not have happened.’

For the first time Henry stumbles, looks flustered. ‘Well, I’m not sure. . I can only repeat what I saw. .’

Pellieux comes to his rescue. ‘If I might make an observation, Monsieur President, at more than a year’s distance it is quite difficult to give a precise date. .’

Luxer agrees. The session moves on. At lunchtime I am allowed to stand down.

Esterhazy’s lawyer takes five hours to make his closing speech. The hearing continues until eight o’clock at night. At one point during his advocate’s monologue Esterhazy seems to nod off, the bald cranium tilting back. When at last the judges rise to consider their verdict, he is led away past me, and gives me a stiff salute containing more than a hint of mockery. Mathieu Dreyfus, who has returned for the verdict and is sitting next to me, mutters, ‘What a rogue!’ I get up with Louis to stretch my legs. I assume we will have several hours to wait. But less than five minutes later comes the cry of ‘Present arms!’ and the doors reopen. The judges troop back in and the clerk reads out the verdict. ‘In the name of the people of France. . the council declares unanimously. . the accused is innocent. . he leaves the court without a stain upon his honour. .’

The rest of his words are lost in the volley of applause that cannonades around the stone walls. My brother officers stamp their feet. They clap. They cheer: ‘Vive l’armée!’ ‘Vive la France!’ and even ‘Death to the Jews!’ The outcome was predetermined. I should not be shocked. And yet there are limits to how well the imagination can prepare one for disaster. As Mathieu and I make our way out of the courtroom, pursued by jeers and insults — ‘Death to the syndicate!’ ‘Death to Picquart!’ — I feel as if I have tumbled deep into some mineshaft from which it will be impossible to clamber back. All is darkness — indeed, Dreyfus is actually worse off than he was six months ago, for he has now been doubly condemned. It is impossible to imagine the army holding a third hearing.

Outside, beyond the murkily lit courtyard, a crowd of more than a thousand has gathered, despite the cold. They are clapping rhythmically and chanting their hero’s name: ‘Es-ter-hazy! Es-ter-hazy!’ All I want to do is get away. I walk towards the gate, but Louis and Mathieu restrain me. Louis says, ‘You mustn’t go out there yet, Georges. Your picture has been in the papers. You’ll be lynched.’

At that moment Esterhazy comes out of the court building, escorted by his lawyer, Henry and du Paty and followed by an applauding retinue of black-uniformed soldiers. Esterhazy’s face is transfigured, almost luminous with triumph. He wears a cape which he sweeps up on to his shoulder in a gesture of imperial magnificence, then steps out into the street. A terrific cheer goes up. Hands stretch out to pat his back. Someone shouts, ‘Hats off to the martyr of the Jews!’

Mathieu touches me on the arm. ‘Now we should go.’ He takes off his overcoat and helps me put it on over my distinctive tunic. With my head down and with him on one side of me and Louis on the other, I push my way out into the rue Cherche-Midi and turn in the opposite direction to Esterhazy, moving quickly along the wet pavement towards the distant traffic.