An Officer and a Spy

I wander around examining the photographs. It reminds me of a vast natural science collection — of butterflies, perhaps, or beetles, pinned and mounted. The expressions on the prisoners’ faces are variously frightened, shamed, defiant, disinterested; some look badly beaten up, half starved or crazy; no one smiles. Amid this dismal array of desperate humanity I suddenly come across Alfred Dreyfus. His bland accountant’s face stares out at me from above his torn uniform. Without his habitual spectacles or pince-nez his face looks naked. His eyes bore into mine. There is a caption: Dreyfus 5.1.95.

A voice says, ‘Colonel Picquart?’ and I turn to find Bertillon holding my card. He is a squat, pale figure in his early forties with a thick pelt of black hair. His stiff beard is cut square, like the blade of an axe: I feel that if I ran my finger along the edge, it would draw blood.

‘Good day, Monsieur Bertillon. I was just noticing that you have Captain Dreyfus here among your specimens.’

‘Ah yes, I recorded him myself,’ replies Bertillon. He comes over to stand beside me. ‘I photographed him when he arrived at La Santé prison, straight from his degradation.’

‘He looks different to how I remember him.’

‘The man was in a trance — a somnambulist.’

‘How else could one endure such an experience?’ I open my briefcase. ‘Dreyfus in fact is the reason for my visit. I’ve replaced Colonel Sandherr as chief of the Statistical Section.’

‘Yes, Colonel, I remember you from the court martial. What new is there to say about Dreyfus?’

‘Would you be so good as to examine these?’ I hand him the photographs of the two Esterhazy letters. ‘And tell me what you think.’

‘You know that I never give instant judgements?’

‘You might want to in this case.’

He looks as if he might refuse. But then curiosity overcomes him. He goes to the window and holds up the letters to the light, one in either hand, and inspects them. He frowns and gives me a puzzled look. He returns his attention to the photographs. ‘Well,’ he says; and then again: ‘Well, well. .!’

He crosses to a filing cabinet, slides open a drawer and takes out a thick green folder bound with black ribbon. He carries it over to his bench. He unties it, and pulls out a photograph of the bordereau and various sheets and charts. He lays the bordereau and the letters in a row. Then he takes three identical sheets of squared transparent paper and lays one over each of the three documents. He switches on a lamp and pulls the magnifying glass into position and starts to examine them. ‘A-ha,’ he mutters to himself, ‘a-ha, yes, yes, a-ha. .’ He makes a series of rapid notes. ‘A-ha, a-ha, yes, yes, a-ha. .’

I watch him for several minutes. Eventually I can’t stop myself. ‘Well? Are they the same?’

‘Identical,’ he says. He shakes his head in wonder. He turns to me. ‘Absolutely identical!’

I can scarcely believe he can be so certain so quickly. The main prop in the case against Dreyfus has just vanished: kicked away by the very expert who put it there in the first place. ‘Would you be willing to sign an affidavit to that effect?’

‘Absolutely.’

Absolutely? The photographs of the criminals on the walls seem to whirl around me. ‘What if I told you that those letters weren’t written by Dreyfus at all, but here in France this very summer?’

Bertillon shrugs, unconcerned. ‘Then I would say that obviously the Jews have managed to train someone else to write using the Dreyfus system.’

I head back from the Île de la Cité to the Left Bank. I try to track down Armand du Paty at the Ministry of War. I am told he is not expected in that day, but he may be found at home. A junior staff officer gives me his address: 17, avenue Bosquet.

I set off yet again on foot. At some point I seem to have ceased to be an army officer and become a detective. I pound pavements. I interview witnesses. I collect evidence. If and when this is all over, perhaps I should apply to join the Sûreté.

The avenue Bosquet is pleasant and prosperous, close to the Seine, sun-dappled beneath its trees. Du Paty’s apartment is on the second floor. I knock several times without receiving a reply, and I am on the point of leaving when I notice a shadow shifting slightly in the gap below the door. I knock again. ‘Colonel du Paty? It’s Georges Picquart.’

There is a silence, and then a muffled command: ‘A moment, if you please!’ Bolts are drawn back, a lock turns, and the door opens a crack. A distorted eye blinks at me through a monocle. ‘Picquart? Are you alone?’

‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘True.’ The door opens fully to reveal du Paty dressed in a long red silk dressing gown covered in Chinese dragons; on his feet are pale blue Moroccan slippers; on his head a crimson Turkish fez. He is unshaven. ‘I was working on my novel,’ he explains. ‘Come in.’