An Officer and a Spy

‘Do you remember,’ interrupts the Minister of War, turning to Boisdeffre, ‘that they used to call Jean Sandherr “the handsomest man in the French Army”?’

‘I do remember that, Minister,’ confirms the Chief of the General Staff. ‘It’s hard to believe it now, poor fellow.’

On one side of Sandherr stood his deputy, a plump alcoholic with a face the colour of brick, taking regular nips from a gunmetal hip flask; on the other was the only member of his staff I knew by sight — the massive figure of Joseph Henry, who clapped me on the shoulder and boomed that he hoped I’d be mentioning him in my report to the minister. The two junior officers of the section, both captains, seemed colourless by comparison. There was also a civilian, a bony clerk who looked as if he seldom saw fresh air, holding a pair of opera glasses. They shifted along to make room for me and the alcoholic offered me a swig of his filthy cognac. Presently we were joined by a couple of other outsiders: a smart official from the Foreign Ministry, and that disturbing booby Colonel du Paty de Clam of the General Staff, his monocle flashing like an empty eye socket in the morning light.

By now the time was drawing close and one could feel the tension tightening under that sinister pale sky. Nearly four thousand soldiers had been drawn up on parade, yet not a sound escaped them. Even the crowd was hushed. The only movement came from the edges of the cour Morland, where a few invited guests were still being shown to their places, hurrying apologetically like latecomers at a funeral. A tiny slim woman in a white fur hat and muff, carrying a frilly blue umbrella and being escorted by a tall lieutenant of the dragoons, was recognised by some of the spectators nearest the railings, and a light patter of applause, punctuated by cries of ‘Hurrah!’ and ‘Bravo!’, drifted over the mud.

Sandherr, looking up, grunted, ‘Who the devil is that?’

One of the captains took the opera glasses from the clerk and trained them on the lady in furs, who was now nodding and twirling her umbrella in gracious acknowledgement to the crowd.

‘Well I’ll be damned if it isn’t the Divine Sarah!’ He adjusted the binoculars slightly. ‘And that’s Rochebouet of the 28th looking after her, the lucky devil!’

Mercier sits back and caresses his white moustache. Sarah Bernhardt, appearing in his production! This is the stuff he wants from me: the artistic touch, the society gossip. Still, he pretends to be displeased. ‘I can’t think who would have invited an actress. .’

At ten minutes to nine, the commander of the parade, General Darras, rode out along the cobbled path into the centre of the parade ground. The general’s mount snorted and dipped her head as he pulled her up; she shuffled round in a circle, eyeing the vast multitude, pawed the hard ground once, and then stood still.

At nine, the clock began to strike and a command rang out: ‘Companies! Attention!’ In thunderous unison the boots of four thousand men crashed together. At the same instant, from the far corner of the parade ground a group of five figures appeared and advanced towards the general. As they came closer, the tiny indistinct shapes resolved themselves into an escort of four gunners, surrounding the condemned man. They came on at a smart pace, marching with such perfect timing that their right feet hit the stroke of the chime exactly on every fifth step; only once did the prisoner stumble, but quickly he corrected himself. As the echo of the last strike died away, they halted and saluted. Then the gunners about-turned and marched away, leaving the convict to face the general alone.

Drums rolled. A bugle sounded. An official stepped forward, holding a sheet of paper up high in front of his face, like a herald in a play. The proclamation flapped in the icy wind, but his voice was surprisingly powerful for so small a man.

‘In the name of the people of France,’ he intoned, ‘the first permanent court martial of the military government of Paris, having met in camera, delivered its verdict in public session as follows. The following single question was put to the members of the court: Is Alfred Dreyfus, captain of the 14th Artillery Regiment, a certified General Staff officer and probationer of the army’s General Staff, guilty of delivering to a foreign power or to its agents in Paris in 1894 a certain number of secret or confidential documents concerning national defence?

‘The court declared unanimously: “Yes, the accused is guilty.”

‘The court unanimously sentences Alfred Dreyfus to the penalty of deportation to a fortified enclosure for life, pronounces the discharge of Captain Alfred Dreyfus, and orders that his military degradation should take place before the first military parade of the Paris garrison.’

He stepped back. General Darras rose in his stirrups and drew his sword. The condemned man had to crane his neck to look up at him. His pince-nez had been taken from him. He wore a pair of rimless spectacles.