An Officer and a Spy

Still, there is no denying Boisdeffre’s celebrity. His schedule has been printed in the newspapers, and when I arrive at the gare de Lyon, the first thing I encounter is a crowd of admirers waiting to catch a glimpse of their idol disembarking from the Vichy train. When at last it pulls in to the platform, several dozen run along its entire length trying to spot him. Eventually he emerges and pauses in the doorway for the photographers. He is in civilian dress but unmistakable nonetheless, his tall and erect figure made even loftier by a beautiful silk top hat. He doffs it politely to the applauding throng, then descends to the platform, followed by Pauffin de Saint Morel and a couple of other orderlies. He progresses slowly towards the ticket barrier, like a great stately battleship passing in a naval review, raising his hat and smiling faintly at the cries of ‘Vive Boisdeffre!’ and ‘Vive l’armée!’, until he sees me. His expression clouds briefly while he tries to remember why I am there, then he acknowledges my salute with a friendly nod. ‘Ride with me in my automobile, Picquart,’ he says, ‘although I’m afraid I’m only going as far as the hôtel de Sens, so it will have to be brief.’

The automobile, a Panhard Levassor, has no roof. We sit up on the cushioned bench seat, the general and I, behind the driver, and trundle shakily over the cobblestones towards the rue de Lyon, watched by a small group of passengers queuing for taxis, who recognise the Chief of the General Staff and break into cheers.

Boisdeffre says, ‘I think that’s enough for them, don’t you?’ He takes off his hat and places it in his lap, and runs his hand through his thinning white hair. ‘So what is all this about another 1894?’

Although this is hardly the kind of interview I had rehearsed, there is at least no danger of our being overheard: he has to turn and shout his question into my ear and I respond in a similar way. ‘We believe we’ve found a traitor in the army, General, passing information to the Germans!’

‘Not another! What sort of information?’

‘So far it seems to be mainly about our artillery.’

‘Important information?’

‘Not particularly, but there might be other matters we don’t know about.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A so-called “Count Walsin Esterhazy”, a major with the 74th.’

Boisdeffre makes a visible effort of memory, then shakes his head. ‘Not a name I would have forgotten if I’d met him. How did we get on to him?’

‘The same way we did with Dreyfus, though our agent in the German Embassy.’

‘My God, I only wish my wife could find a cleaner half as thorough as that woman!’ He laughs at his own joke. He seems remarkably relaxed; perhaps it is the effects of his hydrotherapy. ‘What does General Gonse say?’

‘I haven’t told him yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘I thought it best to talk to you first. With your permission, I’d like to brief the minister next. I hope to know more about Esterhazy in a day or two. Until then, I would prefer not to tell General Gonse.’

‘As you wish.’

He pats his pockets until he finds his snuff box, and offers it to me. I refuse. He takes a couple of pinches. We round the place de la Bastille. In a minute or two we’ll be at our destination and I need a decision.

‘So do I have your permission,’ I ask, ‘to notify the minister?’

‘Yes, I think you should, don’t you? However, I would dearly love,’ he adds, tapping my knee to emphasise each word, ‘to avoid another public scandal! One Dreyfus is quite enough for a generation. Let us try to deal with this case more discreetly.’

I am spared the need to reply by our arrival at the hôtel de Sens. For once, that gloomy medieval pile is a scene of activity. An official reception of some sort is in progress. People are arriving in evening dress. And there, waiting on the doorstep, smoking a cigarette, I see none other than Gonse. Our automobile pulls up a few metres away. Gonse drops his cigarette and heads towards us, just as the driver jumps out to lower the steps for Boisdeffre. Gonse halts and salutes — ‘Welcome back to Paris, General!’ — then looks at me with undisguised suspicion. ‘And Colonel Picquart?’ The statement is delivered as a question.

I say quickly, ‘General Boisdeffre was kind enough to give me a ride from the station.’ It is neither a blatant lie nor the full truth, but hopefully it is enough to cover my exit. I salute and wish them a good evening. When I reach the street corner I risk a look back, but the two men have gone inside.