An Officer and a Spy

It is as if he has leaned across his desk and offered me a secret handshake. I say carefully, ‘I suppose it matters to me because he is an innocent man.’

Gonse laughs; there is an edge of hysteria to it. ‘Well, how very sentimental!’ He claps his hands. ‘A beautiful thought! Newborn lambs and kittens and Alfred Dreyfus — all innocent!’

‘With respect, General, you make it sound as if I have some emotional attachment to the man. I can assure you I have no feelings for him one way or the other. Frankly, I wish he were guilty — it would make my life a great deal easier. And until quite recently I was certain that he was. But now I look at the evidence and it seems to me that he can’t be. The traitor is Esterhazy.’

‘Perhaps it’s Esterhazy and perhaps it’s not. You can’t be sure. The fact is, however, if you say nothing, nobody will ever know.’

So we have reached the dark heart of the matter at last. Suddenly the room seems even quieter than before. He stares at me quite frankly. I take a moment before replying.

‘That is an abominable suggestion, General. You cannot expect me to carry this secret with me to my grave.’

‘Most certainly I can, and I do! Taking secrets to the grave is the essence of our profession.’

Another silence, and then I try again. ‘All I ask is that the whole case be thoroughly investigated-’

‘All you ask!’ Gonse finally erupts. ‘All! I like that! I don’t understand you, Picquart! So what are you saying? That the entire army — the entire nation come to that! — is supposed to revolve around your tender conscience? You have a pretty good conceit of yourself, I must say!’ His neck is fat and flushed bright pink, like some unspeakable pneumatic rubber tube. It bulges against the collar of his tunic. He is terrified, I realise. Abruptly his manner becomes businesslike. ‘Where is the secret file now?’

‘In my safe.’

‘And you haven’t discussed its contents with anyone else?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You have made no copies?’

‘No.’

‘And you are not the source of these leaks to the newspapers?’

‘If I were, I would hardly admit it, would I?’ I can no longer keep the contempt out of my voice. ‘But for what it’s worth, the answer is no.’

‘Don’t be insolent!’ Gonse stands. I follow suit. ‘This is an army, Colonel, not a society for debating ethics. The Minister of War gives orders to the Chief of Staff, the Chief of Staff gives orders to me, and I give orders to you. I now order you formally, and for the final time, not to investigate anything connected with the Dreyfus case, and not to disclose anything about it to anyone who isn’t authorised to receive such information. Heaven help you if you disobey. Understand?’

I cannot even bring myself to reply to him. I salute, turn on my heel, and walk out of the room.

When I get back to the office, Capiaux tells me Desvernine is in the waiting room with the forger, Lemercier-Picard. After my encounter with Gonse, interviewing such a creature is the last thing I feel like doing, but I don’t want to send him away.

The moment I enter, I recognise him as another of that little group, along with Guénée, who were playing cards and smoking pipes on my first morning. Moisés Lehmann suits him better as a name than Lemercier-Picard. He is small and Jewish-looking, plump with charm and confidence, smelling of eau de cologne and eager to impress me with his skill. He persuades me to write out three or four sentences in my own handwriting — ‘Go on, Colonel: what harm can it do, eh?’ — and then after a couple of practice attempts he produces a passable copy. ‘The trick is speed,’ he explains. ‘One must capture the essence of the line and inhabit its character and then write naturally. You have a very artistic hand, Colonel: very secretive, very introspective if I may say so.’

‘That’s enough, Moisés,’ says Desvernine, pretending to cuff his ear. ‘The colonel has no time for your nonsense. You can get out of here now. Wait for me in the lobby.’

The forger grins at me. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Colonel.’

‘It’s mutual. And I’d like my sheet of handwriting back, if you please.’

‘Oh yes,’ he says, pulling it out of his pocket. ‘I almost forgot.’

After he’s gone, Desvernine says, ‘I thought you ought to know that Esterhazy seems to have done a runner. He and his wife have moved out of the apartment in the rue de la Bienfaisance — and left in a hurry, by the look of it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve been inside. Don’t worry — I didn’t have to do anything illegal. It’s up for rent. I pretended I was looking for a place. They’ve taken away most of their furniture, just left a few bits of rubbish. He burned a lot of paper in the hearth. I found this.’

It is a visiting card, singed at the edges:

Édouard Drumont

Editor

La Libre Parole

I turn it back and forth. ‘So Esterhazy’s a contributor to that anti-Jewish rag?’