An Officer and a Spy

He gives me the second letter. It is couched in almost identical terms to the first: I am writing to request an immediate transfer from the headquarters of the 74th Infantry Regiment in Rouen. . I believe I have demonstrated the qualities necessary for work on the General Staff. . I have served in the Foreign Legion and in the intelligence department as a German translator. . I would be most grateful if you could bring this request to the attention of the appropriate authority. .

‘Have you replied?’

‘We’ve sent him a holding letter — “your request is being considered by the minister”.’

‘Can I borrow these?’

Calmon-Maison responds as if reciting a legal formula: ‘The minister has asked me to tell you that he can see no objection to your making use of these letters as part of your inquiry.’

Back in my office, I sit at my desk with the letters in front of me. The writing is neat, regular, well spaced. I am almost sure I have seen it before. At first I think it must be because the script is quite similar to that of Dreyfus, whose correspondence I have spent so many hours studying lately.

And then I remember the bordereau — the covering note that was retrieved from Schwartzkoppen’s waste-paper basket and that convicted Dreyfus of treason.

I look at the letters again.

No, surely not. .

I rise from my seat like a man in a dream and take the few steps across the carpet to the safe. My hand shakes very slightly as I insert the key. The envelope containing the photograph of the bordereau is still there, where Sandherr left it: I have been meaning for months to take it upstairs to Gribelin so he can file it away in his archive.

The bordereau, in facsimile, is a column of thirty narrow lines of handwriting — undated, unaddressed, unsigned:

I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. .

A note on the hydraulic brake of the 120 and how that part performed

A note on covering troops (several modifications will be introduced by the new plan)

A note on the change to artillery formations

A note concerning Madagascar

The draft Field Artillery Firing Manual (14 March 1894)

The last paragraph explains that the Ministry of War will not permit individual officers to keep possession of the Field Artillery Firing Manual for very long, therefore if you would like to take from it what interests you and afterwards leave it at my disposal, I will collect it. Otherwise I can copy it verbatim and send you the copy. I am off to manoeuvres.

The leading handwriting expert in Paris swore that this was written by Dreyfus. I carry the photograph over to my desk and place it between the two letters from Esterhazy. I stoop for a closer look.

The writing is identical.

10

For several minutes I sit motionless, holding the photograph. I might be made of marble, a sculpture by Rodin: The Reader. What really freezes me, even more than the matching handwriting, is the content — the obsession with artillery, the offer to have a manual copied out verbatim, the obsequious salesman’s tone — it is Esterhazy to the life. Briefly, just as I did when the petit bleu came in, I consider marching over to the minister’s office and laying the evidence in front of him. But again I know that would be folly. My four golden principles are more important now than ever: take it one step at a time; approach the matter dispassionately; avoid a rush to judgement; confide in nobody until there is hard evidence.

I pick up the two letters, straighten my tunic and walk along the corridor to Lauth’s office. For a moment I hesitate outside his door, then I knock and go straight in.

The captain of dragoons is leaning back in his chair, long legs outstretched, eyes closed. There is something quite angelic about that blond head in repose. No doubt he is a success with women, although he has a young wife, I believe; I wonder if he has affairs. I am on the point of leaving when suddenly he opens his blue eyes and sees me. And in that unguarded instant something flickers in them that is beyond surprise: it is alarm.