An Officer and a Spy (32 page)

Gonse says quietly, “The evidence is what, Colonel?”

“The evidence in the file is”—I spread my hands—“weak. If the proofs it contained were cast-iron, we might be able to excuse the fact that they weren’t seen by the defence. But as it is …”

“I completely understand what you’re saying, my dear Picquart—believe me, I do!” He leans forward, imploring. “But that’s precisely why the integrity of the secret file must be protected at all costs. Suppose we follow your route to this higher ground of yours, and we say to the French people: ‘Oh look, Esterhazy wrote the
bordereau
after all, let’s bring back Dreyfus, let’s hold some great new trial’—what will happen next? People will want to know how the original judges—all seven of them, mark you—could have got the whole thing so wrong. That will lead straight to the secret file. Some very senior figures are going to be gravely embarrassed. Do you want that? Can you imagine the damage it will do to the reputation of the army?”

“I accept there would be damage, General. But we would also
gain credit for cleaning out our own stables. Whereas it seems to me that we will only compound that damage if we pile fresh lies on top of the old—”

“Nobody’s talking about lying, Colonel! I’m not asking you to lie! I’d never do that. I know you are a man of honour. I’m not asking you to
do
anything, in point of fact. I’m merely asking you
not
to do something—not to go near the Dreyfus case. Is that so unreasonable, Georges?” He risks a little smile. “After all, I know your views on the Chosen Race—really, when all is said and done, what does it matter to you if one Jew stays on Devil’s Island?”

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?”

“Apparently. Or perhaps he just gives them information—plenty in the army do. The thing is, Colonel—he’s gone to ground. He’s not in Paris. He’s not even in Rouen anymore. He’s moved out to the Ardennes.”

“Do you think he knows we’re on to him?”

“I’m not sure. But I don’t like the smell of it. I think if we’re going to lay our trap we need to do it quickly.”

Billot is my only hope now. Billot: the old lizard, the old survivor, the two times Minister of War—surely he will realise not just the immorality but the political insanity of the General Staff’s policy?

He is due to return from the manoeuvres in the southwest on Friday. That morning
Le Figaro
publishes on its front page the text of a petition sent by Lucie Dreyfus to the Chamber of Deputies, pointing out that the government hasn’t denied the stories about the secret file:

In the narrow, gloomy passages and stairwells of the Statistical Section there is silence. My officers shut themselves away in their rooms. Hourly I expect to be summoned over the road by Gonse for an explanation of this latest bombshell, but the telephone never rings. From my office I keep half an eye on the back of the hôtel de Brienne. Finally, just after three o’clock, I glimpse uniformed orderlies with dispatch cases passing behind its tall windows. The minister
must be back. The topography works in my favour: Gonse, sitting in the rue Saint-Dominique, will not yet know he has returned. I go down into the rue de l’Université, cross the street and take out my key to let myself into the minister’s garden.

And then something odd happens. My key does not fit. I try it three or four times, dully refusing to believe it won’t work. But the shape of the lock is entirely different to what it used to be. Eventually I give up and walk the long way round, via the place du Palais Bourbon, like any ordinary mortal.

“Colonel Picquart to see the Minister of War …”

The sentry lets me through the gate but the captain of the Republican Guard in the downstairs lobby asks me to wait. After a few minutes, Captain Calmon-Maison comes downstairs.

I hold up my key to show him. “It doesn’t work anymore.” I try to make a joke of it. “Like Adam, I appear to have been expelled from the garden for an excess of curiosity.”

Calmon-Maison’s face is deadpan. “I’m sorry, Colonel. We have to change the locks occasionally—security, you understand.”

“You don’t have to explain, Captain. But I still need to brief the minister.”

“Unfortunately, he’s only just returned from Châteauneuf. He has a lot to do, and he’s really rather exhausted. Could you possibly come back on Monday?” At least he has the grace to look embarrassed as he says this.

“It won’t take long.”

“Nevertheless …”

“I’ll wait.” I resume my place on the red leather banquette.

He looks at me dubiously. “Perhaps I’d better go and have another word with the minister.”

“Perhaps you should.”

He clatters off up the marble staircase, and shortly afterwards calls down to me, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Colonel Picquart!”

Billot is sitting behind his desk. “Picquart,” he says, wearily raising his hand, “I’m afraid I’m very busy”—although there is no sign of any activity in his office, and I suspect he has simply been staring out of the window.

“Forgive me, Minister. I shan’t detain you. But in the light of the newspaper stories this week, I feel the need to press you now for a decision about the Esterhazy investigation.”

Billot peers at me warily from beneath his bushy white brows. “A decision about what aspect of it, exactly?”

I begin to describe the idea I have devised with Desvernine, of luring Esterhazy to a meeting by means of a message purporting to come from Schwartzkoppen, but he cuts me off very quickly. “No, no, I don’t like that at all—that’s far too crude. In fact, you know, I’m starting to think that the quickest way to deal with this swine is actually not to prosecute him at all but to pension him off. Either that, or send him somewhere a long way away—Indochina or Africa: I don’t know—preferably somewhere he can contract a very nasty local disease, or take a bullet in the back without too many questions being asked.”

I’m not sure how to respond to this suggestion, so I ignore it. “And what do we do about Dreyfus?”

“He’ll just have to stay where he is. The law has pronounced and that’s an end of it.”

“So you’ve reached a final decision?”

“I have. I had the opportunity before the parade in Châteauneuf to discuss the matter privately with General Mercier. He motored over specially from Le Mans to talk about it.”

“I bet he did!”

“Be careful, Colonel …!” Billot points a warning finger at me. Up till now he has always encouraged me to tiptoe to the edge of insubordination: it has amused him to play the indulgent paterfamilias. Clearly, like access to his garden, that privilege has been withdrawn.

Still, I can’t stop myself. “This secret file—you do know that it proves nothing against Dreyfus? That it may even contain downright lies?”

Billot puts his hands over his ears. “There are things I shouldn’t hear, Colonel.”

He looks absurd, in the way that stubborn old men sometimes do: a sulky child in a nursery.

“I can shout quite loudly,” I warn him.

“I mean it, Picquart! I mustn’t hear it!” His voice is sharp. Only when he is satisfied that I won’t pollute his ears any further does he lower his hands. “Now don’t be such an arrogant young fool and listen to me.” His voice is conciliatory, reasonable. “General Boisdeffre is about to welcome the Tsar to Paris in a diplomatic coup that will change the world. I have a six-hundred-million-franc budget estimate to negotiate with the Finance Committee. We simply can’t allow ourselves to be distracted from these great issues by the sordid matter of one Jew on a rock. It would tear the army to pieces. I would be hounded out of this office—and rightly so. You must keep the whole matter in proportion. Do you understand what I’m saying, Colonel?”

I nod.

He rises from behind his desk with surprising grace and comes round to stand in front of me. “Calmon-Maison tells me we’ve had to change the locks on the garden. It’s such a bore. I’ll make sure you get a new key. I do so greatly value your intelligence, dear boy.” He offers me his hand. His grip is hard, dry, calloused. He clamps his other hand around mine, imprisoning it. “There’s nothing easy about power, Georges. One needs the stomach to take hard decisions. But I’ve seen all this before. Today the press is Dreyfus, Dreyfus, Dreyfus; tomorrow, without some new disclosure, they’ll have forgotten all about him, you’ll see.”

Billot’s prediction about Dreyfus and the press proves correct. As abruptly as they took him up again, the newspapers lose all interest in the prisoner on Devil’s Island. He is replaced on the front pages by stories about the Russian state visit, in particular by speculation about what the Tsarina will be wearing. But I do not forget him.