An Officer and a Spy

For months there has been nothing in the press about Dreyfus. But on the day after my visit to Gonse, the Colonial Ministry is obliged to deny a wild rumour in the London press that he has escaped from Devil’s Island. At the time I think nothing of it: it’s just journalism, and English journalism at that.

Then on the Tuesday Le Figaro appears with its lead story, ‘The Captivity of Dreyfus’, spread across the first two and a half columns of the front page. The report is an accurate, well-informed and sympathetic account of what Dreyfus is enduring on Devil’s Island (‘forty to fifty thousand francs a year to keep alive a French officer who, since the day of his public degradation, has endured a death worse than death’). I presume the information has come from the Dreyfus family.

It is against this background that the next day I go to brief the minister.

I unlock the garden gate and make my way, unseen by any curious eyes in the ministry, across the lawn and into the rear of his official residence.

The old boy has been on leave for a week. This is his first day back. He seems to be in good spirits. His bulbous nose and the top of his bald head are peeling from exposure to the sun. He sits up straight in his chair, stroking his vast white moustaches, watching with amusement as yet again I bring out all the paperwork associated with the case. ‘Good God! I’m an old man, Picquart. Time is precious. How long is all this going to take?’

‘I’m afraid it’s partly your fault, Minister.’

‘Ah, do you hear him? The cheek of the young! My fault? And pray how is that?’

‘You very kindly authorised your staff to show me these letters from the suspected traitor, Esterhazy,’ I say, passing them over, ‘and then I’m afraid I noticed their distinct similarity to this.’ I give him the photograph of the bordereau.

Once again I am surprised by how quick on the uptake he is. Ancient he may be — a captain of infantry before I was even born — yet he looks from one to the other and grasps the implications immediately. ‘Well I’ll be blessed!’ He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘You’ve had the handwriting checked, I presume?’

‘By the original police expert, Bertillon, yes. He says it is identical. Naturally I’d like to get other opinions.’

‘Have you shown this to General Boisdeffre?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s his opinion?’

‘He referred me to General Gonse.’

‘And Gonse?’

‘He wants me to abandon my investigation.’

‘Does he, indeed? Why’s that?’

‘Because he believes, as do I, that it would almost certainly set in train a process that would lead to an official revision of the Dreyfus affair.’

‘Heavens! That would be an earthquake!’

‘It would, Minister, especially as we would have to reveal the existence of this. .’

I hand him the secret file. He squints at it. ‘“D”? What the hell is this?’ He has never even heard of it. I have to explain. I show him the contents, item by item. Once again he goes straight to the heart of the matter. He extracts the letter referring to ‘that lowlife D’ and holds it close to his face. His lips move as he reads. The backs of his hands are flaking like his scalp, and mottled with liver spots: an old lizard who has survived more summers than anyone could believe possible.

When he gets to the end he says, ‘Who’s “Alexandrine”?’

‘That’s von Schwartzkoppen. He and the Italian military attaché call one another by women’s names.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Because they are buggers, Minister.’

‘Good God!’ Billot pulls a face. He holds the letter gingerly between finger and thumb and passes it back to me. ‘You have a pretty tawdry job, Picquart.’

‘I know that, General. I didn’t ask for it. But now I have it, it seems to me I must do it properly.’

‘I agree.’

‘And in my view, that means investigating Esterhazy thoroughly for the crimes he’s committed. And if it transpires that we have to fetch Dreyfus back from Devil’s Island — well, I say it’s better for us in the army to rectify our own mistake rather than be forced to do it by outside pressure later.’

Billot stares into the middle distance, his right thumb and forefinger smoothing down his moustaches. He grunts as he thinks. ‘This secret file,’ he says after a while. ‘Surely it’s against the law to pass evidence to the judges without letting the defence have a chance to challenge it first?’

‘It is. I regret having been a party to it.’

‘So whose decision was it?’

‘Ultimately, it was General Mercier’s, as Minister of War.’