An Officer and a Spy

I can only laugh. ‘You have to credit them with a sense of humour.’

But Labori refuses to join in. ‘They will argue that a military investigation into forgery takes precedence over a civil proceeding. It’s a tactic to get you into army custody. My guess is the judge will agree.’

‘Well,’ I shrug, ‘I suppose one prison is much like another.’

‘That’s precisely where you’re wrong, my friend. The regime at Cherche-Midi is much harsher than here. And I don’t like the thought of you in the clutches of the army — who can tell what accidents might befall you?’

The next day when I am taken into the criminal court of the Seine I ask the judge if I can make a statement. The courtroom is small and jammed with journalists — not just French, but international: I can even see the bald dome and massive side-whiskers of the most famous foreign correspondent in the world, Monsieur de Blowitz of the London Times. It is to the reporters that I address my remarks.

‘This evening,’ I say, ‘I may well be taken to Cherche-Midi, so this is probably the last time that I can speak in public before the secret investigation. I want it to be known that if Lemercier-Picard’s shoelaces or Henry’s razor are ever found in my cell, it will be murder, for never would a man such as I, even for one instant, contemplate suicide. I shall face this accusation, my head held high, and with the same serenity that I have always shown before my accusers.’

To my surprise there is loud applause from the reporters, and I am escorted out of the chamber to shouts of ‘Vive Picquart!’ ‘Vive la verité!’ ‘Vive la justice!’

Labori’s prediction is correct: the army wins the right to deal with me first, and the following day I am taken to Cherche-Midi — to be locked, I am told with relish, in the very same cell in which poor Dreyfus used to bash his head against the wall exactly four years before.

I am kept in solitary confinement, forbidden most visitors and let out for only an hour a day into a tiny yard, six paces square, surrounded by high walls. I criss-cross it, back and forth, from corner to corner, and circle the edge, like a mouse trapped in the bottom of a well.

The accusation is that I scratched off the original addressee of the telegram-card and wrote in Esterhazy’s name myself. The offence carries a sentence of five years. The questioning goes on for weeks.

Tell us the circumstances in which you came into possession of the petit bleu. .

Fortunately, I haven’t forgotten that I asked Lauth to make photographic copies of the petit bleu soon after it was pieced together: eventually these are fetched and show clearly that the address had not been tampered with at that time; only subsequently was it altered as part of the conspiracy to frame me. Still I am kept in Cherche-Midi. Pauline writes, asking to visit me; I tell her not to — it might get into the papers, and besides, I don’t want her to see me in this condition; I find it easier to endure it alone. Occasionally the boredom is alleviated by trips to court. In November I lay out the whole of my evidence yet again, this time to the twelve senior judges of the Criminal Chamber, who are beginning the civil process of considering whether the verdict against Dreyfus is safe.

My continued detention without trial becomes notorious. Clemenceau, who is allowed to visit me, proposes in L’Aurore ‘the nomination of Picquart to the post of Grand Prisoner of State, vacant since the Man in the Iron Mask’. At night, after they have turned out my light and I can no longer read, I can hear demonstrations both for and against me in the rue Cherche-Midi. The prison has to be protected by seven hundred troops; the hooves of the cavalry clatter down the cobbled streets. I receive thousands of letters of support, including one from the old Empress Eugénie. So embarrassing does this become to the government that Labori is told by officials of the Ministry of Justice that he should ask the civil courts to intervene and release me. I refuse to permit him to do so: I am more useful as a hostage. Every day that I am locked up, the more desperate and vindictive the army looks.

Months pass, and then on the afternoon of Saturday 3 June 1899, Labori comes to see me. Outside the sun is shining strongly, penetrating even the grime and bars of the tiny window; I can hear a bird singing. He puts a large and inky palm to the metal grille and says, ‘Picquart, I want to shake your hand.’

‘Why?’

‘Must you always be so damned contrary?’ He rattles the steel mesh with his long, thick fingers. ‘Come: for once, just do as I ask.’ I place my palm to his and he says quietly, ‘Congratulations, Georges.’

‘On what?’

‘The Supreme Court of Appeal has ordered the army to bring Dreyfus back for a retrial.’

I have waited for this news for so long, and yet when it comes I feel nothing. All I can say is, ‘What reasons did they give?’