An Officer and a Spy

Henry salutes and leaves. I close the door and look around me. My skin crawls slightly; I feel as if I am wearing the outfit of a dead man. There are shadows on the walls where Sandherr’s pictures hung, burns on the desk from his cigarettes, ring marks on the table from his drinks. A worn track in the carpet shows where he used to push back his chair. His presence oppresses me. I find the correct key and unlock the safe. Inside are several dozen letters, unopened, addressed to various places around the city, to four or five different names — aliases presumably. These, I guess, must be reports from Sandherr’s agents that have been forwarded since he left. I open one — Unusual activity is reported in the garrison at Metz. . — then close it again. Espionage work: how I loathe it. I should never have taken this posting. It seems impossible to imagine that I will ever feel at home.

Beneath the letters is a thin manila envelope containing a large photograph, twenty-five centimetres by twenty. I recognise it immediately from Dreyfus’s court martial — a copy of the covering note, the famous bordereau, that accompanied the documents he passed to the Germans. It was the central evidence against him produced in court. Until this morning I had no idea how the Statistical Section had got its hands on it. And no wonder. I have to admire Lauth’s handiwork. Nobody looking at it could tell it had once been ripped into pieces: all the tear marks have been carefully touched out, so that it seems like a whole document.

I sit at the desk and unlock it. Despite the slow progressive nature of his illness, Sandherr seems to have ended up vacating the premises in a hurry. A few odds and ends have been left behind. They roll about when I pull open the drawers. Pieces of chalk. A ball of sealing wax. Some foreign coins. Four bullets. And various tins and bottles of medicine: mercury, extract of guaiacum, potassium iodine.

General de Boisdeffre gives me lunch at the Jockey Club to celebrate my appointment, which is decent of him. The windows are all closed, the doors are shut, bowls of freesias and sweet peas have been placed on every table. But nothing can entirely dispel the sweetly sour odour of human excrement. Boisdeffre affects not to notice. He orders a good white burgundy and drinks most of it, his high cheeks gradually flushing the colour of a Virginia creeper in autumn. I drink sparingly and keep a tiny notebook open beside my plate like a good staff officer.

The president of the club, Sosthènes de La Rochefoucauld, duc de Doudeauville, is at the neighbouring table. He comes across to greet the general. Boisdeffre introduces me. The duc’s nose and cheekbones look as delicately ridged and fragile as meringues; his handshake is a brush of papery skin against my fingers.

Over potted trout the general talks about the new tsar, Nicholas II. Boisdeffre is anxious to be informed of any Russian anarchist cells that may be active in Paris. ‘I want you to keep your ears open wide for that one; anything we can pass on to Moscow will be valuable in negotiations.’ He swallows a morsel of fish and goes on: ‘An alliance with Russia will solve our inferiority vis-à-vis the Germans with one diplomatic stroke. It is worth a hundred thousand men, at least. That is why half my time is devoted to foreign affairs. At the highest level, the border between the military and the political ceases to exist. But we must never forget the army must always be above mere party politics.’

This prompts him to reminisce about Mercier, no longer Minister of War but now seeing out the years before his retirement as commander of the 4th Army Corps at Le Mans. ‘He was right to foresee that the President might fall, wrong to believe that he stood any chance of replacing him.’

I am so surprised I stop eating, my fork poised midway to my mouth. ‘General Mercier thought that he might become president?’

‘Indeed, he entertained that delusion. This is one of the problems with a republic — at least under a monarchy no one seriously imagines he can become king. When Monsieur Casimir-Perier resigned in January, and the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies convened at Versailles to elect his successor, General Mercier’s “friends” — as it would be delicate to call them — had a flyer circulated, calling on them to elect the man who had just delivered the traitor Dreyfus to the court martial. He received precisely three votes out of eight hundred.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘I believe it was what our English friends call “a long shot”.’ Boisdeffre smiles. ‘But now of course the politicians will never forgive him.’ He dabs at his moustache with his napkin. ‘You’ll have to think a little more politically from now on, Colonel, if you’re going to fulfil the great hopes we all have of you.’ I bow my head slightly, as if the Chief of Staff is hanging a decoration round my neck. He says, ‘Tell me, what do you make of the Dreyfus business?’