An Officer and a Spy (5 page)

“Picquart. Good of you to come.”

“My apologies that I’m not in uniform, General.”

“No matter. It’s a Sunday, after all.”

I follow him through the darkened apartment—“My wife is in the country,” he explains over his shoulder—and into what seems to be his study. Above the window is a pair of crossed spears—mementos of his service in North Africa, I assume—and on the chimneypiece a photograph of him taken a quarter of a century ago, as a junior staff officer in the 13th Army Corps. He refreshes his drink from a decanter and pours one for me, then flops down on to the couch with a groan and lights a cigarette.

“This damned Dreyfus affair,” he says. “It will be the death of us all.”

I make some light reply—“Really? I would have preferred mine to be slightly more heroic!”—but Gonse fixes me with a look of great seriousness.

“My dear Picquart, you don’t seem to realise: we have just come very close to war. I have been up since one o’clock this morning, and all because of that damned fool Lebrun-Renault!”

“My God!” Taken aback, I set down my untasted glass of cognac.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” he says, “that such a catastrophe might have resulted from one idiot’s gossip, but it’s true.”

He tells me how, an hour after midnight, he was woken by a messenger from the Minister of War. Summoned to the hôtel de Brienne, he found Mercier in his dressing gown with a private secretary from the Élysée Palace who had with him copies of the first editions of the Paris newspapers. The private secretary then repeated to Gonse what he had just told Mercier: that the President was appalled—appalled! scandalised!—by what he had just read. How could it be that an officer of the Republican Guard could spread such stories—in particular, that a document had been stolen by the French government from the German Embassy, and that the whole episode was some
kind of espionage trap for the Germans? Was the Minister of War aware that the German ambassador was coming to the Élysée that very afternoon to present a formal note of protest from Berlin? That the German emperor was threatening to withdraw his ambassador from Paris unless the French government stated once and for all that it accepted the German government’s assurances that it had never had any dealings with Captain Alfred Dreyfus? Find him, the President demanded! Find this Captain Lebrun-Renault
and shut him up!

And so General Arthur Gonse, the Chief of French Military Intelligence, at the age of fifty-six, found himself in the humiliating position of taking a carriage and going from door to door—to regimental headquarters, to Lebrun-Renault’s lodgings, to the fleshpots of Pigalle—until finally, just before dawn, he had run his quarry to earth in the Moulin Rouge, where the young captain was still holding forth to an audience of reporters and prostitutes!

At this point I have to press my forefinger across my lips to hide a smile, for the monologue is not without its comic elements—all the greater when delivered in Gonse’s hoarse and outraged tones. I can only imagine what it must have been like for Lebrun-Renault to turn around and see Gonse bearing down upon him, or his frantic attempts to sober up before explaining his actions, first to the Minister of War, and then, in what must have been an exquisitely embarrassing interview, to President Casimir-Perier himself.

“There is nothing at all funny about this, Major!” Gonse has detected my amusement. “We are in no condition to fight a war against Germany! If they were to decide to use this as a pretext to attack us, then God help France!”

“Of course, General.” Gonse is part of that generation—Mercier and Boisdeffre are of it too—who were scarred as young officers by the rout of 1870 and have been frightened of the Germans’ shadow ever since. “Three-to-two” is their mantra of pessimism: there are three Germans to every two Frenchmen; they spend three francs on armaments to every two that we can afford. I rather despise them for their defeatism. “How has Berlin reacted?”

“Some form of words is being negotiated in the Foreign Ministry to the effect that the Germans are no more responsible for the
documents that get sent to them than we are for the ones that come to us.”

“They have a nerve!”

“Not really. They’re just providing cover for their agent. We’d do the same. But it’s been touch and go all day, I can tell you.”

The more I think of it, the more amazing it seems. “They’d really break off diplomatic relations and risk a war just to protect one spy?”

“Well, of course, they’re embarrassed at being caught out. It’s humiliating for them. Typical damned Prussian overreaction …”

His hand is shaking. He lights a fresh cigarette from his old one and drops the stub into the sawn-off cap of a shell case which serves as his ashtray. He picks a few shreds of tobacco from his tongue then settles back in his couch and regards me through the cloud of smoke. “You haven’t touched your drink, I see.”

“I prefer to keep a clear head when talk turns to war.”

“Ah! That’s exactly when I find I need one!” He drains his glass and toys with it. He smiles at me. I can tell he’s desperate for another by the way he glances over at the decanter, but he doesn’t want to look like a drunk in front of me. He clears his throat and says: “The minister has been impressed by you, Picquart; by your conduct throughout this whole affair. So has the Chief of Staff. You’ve obviously gained valuable experience of secret intelligence over the past three months. So we have it in mind to recommend you for promotion. We’re thinking of offering you command of the Statistical Section.”

I try to hide my dismay. Espionage is grubby work. Everything I have seen of the Dreyfus case has reinforced that view. It isn’t what I joined the army to do. “But surely,” I object, “the section already has a very able commander in Colonel Sandherr?”

“He
is
able. But Sandherr is a sick man, and between you and me he isn’t likely to recover. Also, he’s been in the post ten years; he needs a rest. Now, Picquart, forgive me, but I have to ask you this, given the nature of the secret information you’d be handling—there isn’t anything in your past or private life that could leave you open to blackmail, is there?”

With gathering dismay I realise my fate has already been decided,
perhaps the previous afternoon when Gonse met Mercier and Boisdeffre. “No,” I say, “not that I’m aware of.”

“You’re not married, I believe?”

“No.”

“Any particular reason for that?”

“I like my own company. And I can’t afford a wife.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Any money worries?”

“No money.” I shrug. “No worries.”

“Good.” Gonse looks relieved. “Then it’s settled.”

But still I struggle against my destiny. “You realise the existing staff won’t like an outsider coming in—what about Colonel Sandherr’s deputy?”

“He’s retiring.”

“Or Major Henry?”

“Oh, Henry’s a good soldier. He’ll soon knuckle down and do what’s best for the section.”

“Doesn’t he want the job himself?”

“He does, but he lacks the education, and the social polish for such a senior position. His wife’s father keeps an inn, I believe.”

“But I know nothing about spying—”

“Come now, my dear Picquart!” Gonse is starting to become irritated. “You have exactly the qualities for the post. Where’s the problem? It’s true the unit doesn’t exist officially. There’ll be no parades or stories in the newspapers. You won’t be able to tell anyone what you’re up to. But everyone who’s important will know exactly what you’re doing. You’ll have daily access to the minister. And of course you’ll be promoted to colonel.” He gives me a shrewd look. “How old are you?”

“Forty.”

“Forty! There’s no one else in the entire army of that rank at your age. Think of it: you should make general long before you’re fifty! And after that … You could be Chief one day.”

Gonse knows exactly how to play me. I am ambitious, though not consumed by it, I hope: I appreciate there are other things in life
besides the army—still, I would like to ride my talents as far as they will take me. I calculate: a couple of years in a job I don’t much like, and at the end of them my prospects will be golden. My resistance falters. I surrender.

“When might this happen?”

“Not immediately. In a few months. I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

I nod. “Of course, I shall do whatever the army wants me to do. I’m grateful for your faith in me. I’ll try to prove worthy of it.”

“Good man! I’m sure you will. Now I insist you have that drink that’s still sitting next to you …”

And so it is settled. We toast my future. We toast the army. And then Gonse shows me out. At the door, he puts his hand on my arm and squeezes it paternally. His breath is sweet with cognac and cigarette smoke. “I know you think spying isn’t proper soldiering, Georges, but it is. In the modern age, this is the front line. We have to fight the Germans every day. They’re stronger than we are in men and matériel—‘three-to-two,’ remember!—so we have to be sharper in intelligence.” His grip on my arm tightens. “Exposing a traitor like Dreyfus is as vital to France as winning a battle in the field.”

Outside it is starting to snow again. All along the avenue Victor Hugo countless thousands of snowflakes are caught in the glow of the gas lamps. A white carpet is being laid across the road. It’s odd. I am about to become the youngest colonel in the French army but I feel no sense of exhilaration.

In my apartment Pauline waits. She has kept on the same plain grey dress she wore at lunch so that I may have the pleasure of taking it off her. She turns to allow me to unfasten it at the back, lifting her hair in both hands so that I can reach the top hook. I kiss the nape of her neck and murmur into her skin: “How long do we have?”

“An hour. He thinks I’m at church. Your lips are cold. Where have you been?”

I am about to tell her, but then remember Gouse’s instruction. “Nowhere,” I say.

Six months pass. June arrives. The air warms up and very soon Paris starts to reek of shit. The stench rises out of the sewers and settles over the city like a putrid gas. People venture out of doors wearing linen masks or with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses, but it doesn’t make much difference. In the newspapers the experts are unanimous that it isn’t as bad as the original “great stink” of 1880—I can’t speak to that: I was in Algeria at the time—but certainly it ruins the early days of summer. “It is impossible to stand on one’s balcony,” complains
Le Figaro
, “impossible to sit on the terrace of one of the busy, joyful cafés that are the pride of our boulevards, without thinking that one must be downwind from some uncouth, invisible giant.” The smell infiltrates one’s hair and clothes and settles in one’s nostrils, even on one’s tongue, so that everything tastes of corruption. Such is the atmosphere on the day I take charge of the Statistical Section.

Major Henry, when he comes to collect me at the Ministry of War, makes light of it: “This is nothing. You should have grown up on a farm! Folks’ shit, pigs’ shit: where’s the difference?” His face in the heat is as smooth and fat as a large pink baby’s. A smirk trembles constantly on his lips. He addresses me with a slight overemphasis on my rank
—
“
Colonel
Picquart!”—that somehow combines respect, congratulations and mockery in a single word. I take no offence. Henry is to be my deputy, a consolation for being passed over for the chief’s job. From now on we are locked in roles as ancient as warfare. He is the experienced old soldier who has come up through the ranks, the sergeant major who makes things work; I the younger commissioned officer, theoretically in charge, who must somehow
be prevented from doing too much damage. If each of us doesn’t push the other too far, I think we should get along fine.

Henry stands. “So then,
Colonel:
shall we go?”

I have never before set foot in the Statistical Section—not surprising, as few even know of its existence—and so I have requested that Henry show me round. I expect to be led to some discreet corner of the ministry. Instead he conducts me out of the back gate and a short walk up the road to an ancient, grimy house on the corner of the rue de l’Université which I have often passed and always assumed to be derelict. The darkened windows are heavily shuttered. There is no nameplate beside the door. Inside, the gloomy lobby is pervaded by the same cloying smell of raw sewage as the rest of Paris, but with an added spice of musty dampness.

Henry smears his thumb through a patch of black spores growing on the wall. “A few years ago they wanted to pull this place down,” he says, “but Colonel Sandherr stopped them. Nobody disturbs us here.”

“I am sure they don’t.”

“This is Bachir.” Henry indicates an elderly Arab doorman, in the blue tunic and pantaloons of a native Algerian regiment, who sits in the corner on a stool. “He knows all our secrets, don’t you, Bachir?”