An Officer and a Spy

There is a pause, and then Gonse says, ‘If it really is a question of logic, Colonel, what would you do if we showed you cast-iron proof that Dreyfus was a spy?’

‘If it were cast-iron, then obviously I’d accept it. But I don’t believe such proof can be found.’

‘That is where you are wrong.’

Gonse glances at Billot, who opens the file. It appears to contain only a single sheet of paper.

Billot says, ‘We have recently intercepted a letter, via Agent Auguste, from Major Panizzardi to Colonel Schwartzkoppen. This is the relevant passage: I have read that a deputy is going to ask questions about Dreyfus. If someone asks in Rome for new explanations, I will say that I have never had any dealings with this Jew. If someone asks you, say the same, for no one must ever know what happened to him. It’s signed “Alexandrine”. There,’ says Billot, closing the file with great satisfaction, ‘what do you say about that?’

It is a forgery, of course. It has to be. I keep my composure. ‘When exactly did this reach us, may I ask?’

Billot turns to Gonse, who says, ‘Major Henry collected it in the usual way about two weeks ago. It was in French, so he pieced it together.’

‘Could I see the original?’

Gonse bridles. ‘Why is that necessary?’

‘Only that I would be interested in seeing what it looks like.’

Boisdeffre says, with great chilliness, ‘I would sincerely hope, Colonel Picquart, that you are not doubting the integrity of Major Henry. The message was retrieved and reconstructed — and that is that. We are sharing it with you now in the expectation that its existence will not be disclosed to the press, and that finally you will drop your pernicious insistence that Dreyfus is innocent. Otherwise the consequences for you will be grave.’

I stare from one general to the next. So this is what the army of France has sunk to. Either they are the greatest fools in Europe or the greatest villains: for the sake of my country I am not sure which is worse. But some instinct for self-preservation warns me not to fight them now; I must play dead.

I bow my head slightly. ‘If you are satisfied that it is authentic, then naturally I accept that it must be.’

Billot says, ‘Therefore you also must accept that Dreyfus is guilty?’

‘If the document is authentic, then yes — he must be.’

There. It is done. I do not know what else I could have said at that moment that would have made any difference to Dreyfus’s plight.

Billot says, ‘In view of your previous record, Colonel, we are willing to suspend taking legal action against you, at least for the time being. We do, however, expect you to turn over all documents connected with the investigation of Major Esterhazy, including the petit bleu, to Major Henry. And you will proceed immediately to the depot at Châlons to begin your tour of inspection with the 6th and 7th Corps.’

Gonse is smiling again. ‘I’ll take all your office keys now, my dear Picquart, if I may. There’s no need for you to return to the section. Major Henry can take over the day-to-day running. You go straight home and pack.’

I fill a suitcase with enough clothes for three or four days. I ask the concierge to forward my mail to the Ministry of War. Then I just have sufficient time before my train leaves at seven to call on a few people to say goodbye.

Pauline is in the family’s apartment on the rue de la Pompe, supervising tea for the girls. She looks alarmed to see me. ‘Philippe will be back from the office any minute,’ she whispers, half closing the door behind her.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not coming in.’ I stand on the landing with my suitcase beside me and tell her that I’m going away.

‘For how long?’

‘It should only be for a week or so, but if it turns out to be longer and you need to make contact, write to me care of the ministry — only be careful what you say.’

‘Why? Is something the matter?’

‘No, but precautions are always wise.’ I kiss her hand and press it to my cheek.

‘Maman!’ shrills a voice behind her.

‘You’d better go,’ I say.

I take a cab to the boulevard Saint-Germain and ask the driver to wait. By now it is dark and the lights of the great house are bright in the November gloom; there is an atmosphere of activity: Blanche will be holding one of her musical soirées later in the evening. ‘Stranger!’ she greets me. ‘You’re far too early.’

‘I won’t come in,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid I have to leave Paris for a few days.’ I repeat the instructions I’ve just given Pauline: if she needs to get in touch she should do so via the ministry, but she should try to be discreet. ‘Give my love to Aimery and Mathilde.’

‘Oh, Georges!’ she cries in delight, pinching my cheek and kissing the tip of my nose. ‘You are a mystery!’