An Officer and a Spy

I exchange glances with Labori; Christian notices. ‘Well, Monsieur Picquart, I can see that you know what must be coming! But please bear in mind that I had no experience in these matters and my mother is a most unworldly and religious person — two of my sisters are nuns, in fact. To tell the tale briefly, I wrote back to my chivalrous relative and explained that I had an inheritance of five thousand francs, and my mother would receive one hundred and seventy thousand through the sale of property, and that we would welcome advice in making sure it was safely invested. The major replied, offering to intercede with his intimate friend Edmond de Rothschild, and naturally we thought, “What could be safer than that?”’

He sips his tea, gathering his thoughts before continuing. ‘For some months all went well, and we would receive regular letters from the major enclosing cheques which he said were the dividends from the money the Rothschilds had invested on our behalf. And then last November he wrote to me asking me to come to Paris urgently. He said he was in trouble and needed my help. Naturally I came at once. I found him in a terrible state of anxiety. He said he was about to be denounced in public as a traitor, but that I was not to believe any of the stories. It was all a plot by the Jews, to put him in Dreyfus’s place, and that he could prove this because he was being helped by officers from the Ministry of War. He said it had become too dangerous for him to meet his principal contact, and therefore he asked if I would meet him on his behalf and relay messages between them.’

‘And who was this contact?’ I ask.

‘His name was Colonel du Paty de Clam.’

‘You met du Paty?’

‘Yes, often. Usually at night, in public places — parks, bridges, lavatories.’

‘Lavatories?’

‘Oh yes, although the Colonel would take care to be disguised, in dark glasses or a false beard.’

‘And what sort of messages did you relay between du Paty and your cousin?’

‘All sorts. Warnings of what might be about to appear in the newspapers. Advice on how to respond. I remember there was once an envelope containing a secret document from the ministry. Some messages concerned you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, for example there were two telegrams. They’ve stayed in my mind because they were very odd.’

‘Can you remember what they said?’

‘I remember one was signed “Blanche” — that was written by du Paty. The other — a foreign name. .’

‘Speranza?’

‘Speranza — that’s it! Mademoiselle Pays — she wrote that one out, on the colonel’s instructions, and took it to the post office in the rue Lafayette.’

‘Did they give a reason why they were doing this?’

‘To compromise you.’

‘And you helped because you believed your cousin was innocent?’

‘Absolutely — at least I did then.’

‘And now?’

Christian takes his time replying. He finishes his tea and replaces the cup and saucer on the table — slow and deliberate gestures that do not quite conceal the fact that he is quivering with emotion. ‘A few weeks ago, after my cousin stopped paying my mother her monthly money, I checked with the Rothschilds. There is no bank account. There never was. She is ruined. I believe that if a man could betray his own family in such a fashion, he could betray his country without any conscience. That is why I have come to you. He must be stopped.’

It is obvious what should be done with the information, once it has been verified: it must be passed to Bertulus, the dapper magistrate with the red carnation in his buttonhole, whose slow investigation into the forged telegrams is still proceeding. Because I am the one who laid the original complaint, it is agreed that I should write to him, alerting him to the crucial new witness. Christian agrees to testify, then changes his mind when his cousin discovers he has been to see Labori, and then changes it back again when it is pointed out that he can be subpoenaed in any case.

Esterhazy, obviously aware now that disaster is closing in on him, renews his demands that I should fight him in a duel. He lets it be known in the press that he is prowling the streets near to my apartment in the hopes of meeting me, carrying a heavy cane made of cherry wood and painted bright red with which he proposes to stove in my brains. He claims to be an expert in the art of savate, or kickboxing. Finally he sends me a letter and releases it to the newspapers: