An Officer and a Spy

  ‘Strange,’ I say, flourishing the bordereau. ‘Curious how it brings it all back.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  And that might well have been the end of it, as far as my own involvement was concerned. But then to my surprise, a week later I received a telegram at my apartment summoning me to a meeting in the office of the Minister of War at six o’clock on the evening of Sunday 14 October.

  I presented myself at the hôtel de Brienne at the appointed time. I could hear voices as I climbed the stairs, and when I reached the first floor I discovered a small group waiting in the corridor to go in: General Boisdeffre, General Gonse, Colonel Sandherr and a couple of men I didn’t recognise – a corpulent, claret-faced major who, like me, wore the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and a superintendent from the Sûreté. There was one other officer. He was standing further along the passage next to the window, rather self-importantly wearing a monocle and flicking through a file, and I realised it was Colonel du Paty de Clam, Blanche’s former lover. He saw me looking at him, closed his file, removed his monocle, and strutted towards me.

  ‘Picquart,’ he said, returning my salute. ‘What an appalling business this is.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were involved in it, Colonel.’

  ‘Involved!’ Du Paty laughed and shook his head. ‘My dear Major, I’ve been put in charge of the entire investigation! I’m the reason you’re here!’

  I always found something disconcerting about du Paty. It was as if he were acting the central part in a play for which no one else had been shown the script. He might laugh abruptly, or tap his nose and adopt an air of great mystery, or disappear from a room in the middle of a conversation without explanation. He fancied himself a detective in the modern scientific manner and had made a study of graphology, anthropometry, cryptography and secret inks. I wondered what role in his drama he had chosen for me to play.

  I said, ‘May I ask how the investigation is going?’

  ‘You are about to hear.’ He patted the file and nodded to the minister’s door, which at that moment was being opened by one of his staff officers.

  Inside, Mercier was seated at his desk, signing a pile of correspondence. ‘Please, gentlemen,’ he said in that quiet voice of his without looking up, ‘take a seat. I shan’t be a moment.’

  We arranged ourselves around the conference table in order of rank, leaving the place at the head free for Mercier, with Boisdeffre to the right and Gonse to the left, then Sandherr and du Paty facing one another, and finally we three junior officers at the far end.

  ‘Henry,’ said the burly officer, leaning across the table to extend his hand to me.

  ‘Picquart,’ I replied.

  The commissioner from the Sûreté also introduced himself: ‘Armand Cochefort.’

  For a minute we sat in awkward silence while the minister finished signing his papers, then gave them to his aide, who saluted and left.

  ‘So,’ said Mercier, taking his seat at the table, and placing a sheet of paper in front of him, ‘I have informed the President and the Prime Minister of where things stand, and this is the warrant for Dreyfus’s arrest; all it needs is my signature. Have we received the results of the handwriting expert? I gather the first man, from the Banque de France, concluded that the writing wasn’t Dreyfus’s after all.’

  Du Paty opened his file. ‘We have, Minister. I have consulted Alphonse Bertillon, head of the identification branch of the Préfecture of Police. He says the bordereau contains strong elements of Dreyfus’s handwriting, and where it differs, the discrepancies are deliberate. If I might spare you the technical detail and just read you his conclusion: “It appears clear to us that it was the same person who wrote the various items submitted and the incriminating document.”’

  ‘So one says yes and one says no? That’s experts for you!’ Mercier turned to Sandherr. ‘Is Dreyfus back in Paris yet?’

  Sandherr said, ‘He’s having dinner with his wife’s parents, the Hadamards: his father-in-law is a diamond merchant – you know how they specialise in portable property. We have the building under watch.’

  Boisdeffre interrupted: ‘Isn’t it quite tempting, Colonel, if we know where he is, simply to have him arrested tonight?’

  ‘No, General,’ replied Sandherr, shaking his head emphatically, ‘with the greatest respect, absolutely not. You don’t know these people as well as I do. You don’t know the way they operate. The moment they discover we have Dreyfus in custody, the whole force of upper Jewdom will swing into action to agitate for his release. It’s essential that he simply disappears with the minimum of fuss and we have him to ourselves for at least a week. I think Colonel du Paty’s plan is a good one.’

  Mercier turned his impassive, masklike face to du Paty. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have concluded that the most secure location in which to arrest Dreyfus is inside the ministry itself. General Gonse has already sent him a telegram ordering him to attend a duty inspection in General Boisdeffre’s office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning . . .’

  ‘In civilian dress,’ put in Gonse, ‘so that if anyone sees him afterwards, when he arrives at the prison, they won’t realise he’s an army officer.’

  ‘. . . so we’ll arrest him here in the rue Saint-Dominique, in the Chief of the General Staff’s office.’

  Mercier said, ‘What if he suspects a trap?’

  ‘Ah well, this is where Major Picquart comes in,’ said du Paty.

  I felt all eyes turn in my direction. I tried to stare ahead as if I knew what was coming.

  ‘Major Picquart,’ explained Gonse to Mercier, ‘was one of Dreyfus’s tutors at the École Supérieure. He runs the stagiaire programme.’

  ‘I know that.’ Mercier regarded me through his eye slits; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

  Du Paty continued: ‘I propose that Major Picquart waits for Dreyfus in the main entrance at nine o’clock and personally conducts him to General Boisdeffre’s office. Dreyfus knows him and trusts him. That should allay any suspicions.’

  There was a silence while the minister considered this.

  Mercier said, ‘And what do you think of this plan, Major Picquart?’

  ‘I am not sure Captain Dreyfus regards me as a particularly reassuring figure,’ I replied carefully, ‘but if Colonel du Paty believes my presence will be useful, then of course I shall play my part.’

  Mercier trained his eye slits back on du Paty. ‘So we have him in General Boisdeffre’s office. And then what do we do with him?’

  ‘General Boisdeffre will not be there . . .’

  ‘I should hope not!’ cut in Boisdeffre.

  ‘. . . instead, I’ll greet Dreyfus, explain that the Chief of the General Staff has been delayed, and ask him to take a seat. My right hand will be bandaged – I’ll say it’s injured – and I’ll ask Dreyfus to take down a letter for me, which I’ll dictate. By catching him unawares, I’ll make it hard for him to disguise his writing. Once I have sufficient evidence, I’ll give the signal and we’ll confront him.’

  ‘Who is “we”?’ asked Mercier.

  ‘With me in the room will be Superintendent Cochefort of the Sûreté – who is with us here – along with one of his men, and Monsieur Gribelin, archivist of the Statistical Section, who will make a verbatim record. Major Henry of the Statistical Section will be concealed behind a screen.’

  ‘So it will be five against one?’

  ‘Exactly, Minister. I believe with the benefit of numbers and surprise there is an excellent chance he will be break down and confess on the spot. In which case, I wish to make a further suggestion.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That we offer him the honourable way out – I show him a service revolver with a single bullet, and he can finish it there and then.’

  There was a silence while Mercier considered this, then he inclined his head slightly. ‘Yes.’

  Boisdeffre said, ‘Good heavens! I would be grateful if he could do it away from my
carpet – it’s an Aubusson.’

  Grateful laughter relieved the tension. Only Mercier didn’t smile. ‘And if he doesn’t take the traditional course, what then?’

  ‘Then Major Henry will escort him to Cherche-Midi prison,’ said du Paty, ‘while Cochefort and I go to the Dreyfus apartment and search it for evidence. I’ll warn his wife to say nothing of what has happened to her husband, or she’ll make it far worse for him. At Cherche-Midi, the governor has agreed to keep Dreyfus in solitary confinement twenty-four hours a day – no letters, no visitors, no lawyers. Nobody will know where he is, not even the commander of the Paris garrison. As far as the world is concerned, Captain Alfred Dreyfus will have vanished from the face of the earth.’

  Having delivered himself of this masterpiece, du Paty closed his file and sat back in his chair.

  I glanced around the table. Mercier and Boisdeffre were impassive, Gonse lighting a cigarette, Sandherr gripping the arms of his chair and shaking slightly, Henry watching him with concern, Cochefort with his arms folded and looking at the floor.

  Mercier said, ‘Does anyone have any questions?’

  I hesitated, and then tentatively I raised my hand. I never could resist the opportunity to goad du Paty whenever I had the chance.

  ‘Yes, Major . . . Picquart, is it?’

  ‘It is. Thank you, Minister. I wondered,’ I said, turning towards du Paty, ‘what happens if Dreyfus doesn’t confess?’

  Du Paty gave me a cold look. ‘He will confess. He has no choice.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t . . .?’

  ‘If he doesn’t,’ interrupted Sandherr, staring down the table at me and apparently trembling with emotion, ‘we have plenty of other evidence, apart from his handwriting, that demonstrates his guilt.’

  I decided not to press it further. I nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  A long pause followed.

  ‘Anyone else?’ asked Mercier, the eye slits sweeping past each of us in turn. ‘No? Chief? No? In that case, gentlemen, you are authorised to proceed with the plan, as outlined by Colonel du Paty, at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  And with that he signed the arrest warrant and tossed it down the table towards du Paty.

  The next day was the most perfect crystalline autumn morning one could ever wish for – cool, with a clear sky and a promise of warmth to come, the early sun already starting to part the layers of mist draped across the Seine.

  When I arrived at the ministry soon after eight, I found du Paty in the main lobby, in a state of high nervous excitement, marshalling his troops. Three were in civilian dress – Cochefort and his deputy, and a cadaverous clerk whom I took to be Gribelin, even though we were not introduced. Henry and I were both in uniform. Henry looked bemused, and at one point, as du Paty outlined for the second or third time what he wanted us to do, he caught my eye and gave me the tremor of a wink.

  ‘So, Picquart, make sure you arrive with Dreyfus at the Chief of Staff’s office on the stroke of nine,’ were du Paty’s parting words to me. ‘Not a minute either side, understood? I want this thing to go off like clockwork!’

  Du Paty and the others disappeared upstairs and I settled down on one of the green leather benches to wait. I had a commanding view of the courtyard leading to the rue Saint-Dominique. I pretended to read a newspaper. The minutes dragged by. The whole of the army seemed to pass before me – doddery and white-whiskered old generals, gallant colonels of dragoons flushed by the cold after an early morning canter in the Bois de Boulogne, keen-faced young captains carrying stacks of files for their masters – and then suddenly, in the midst of this parade, came Dreyfus: incongruous, hesitant, frowning, already looking like an outcast, shorn of his uniform, wearing an immaculate black frock coat, striped trousers and a bowler hat. He might have been a stockbroker. I glanced at my watch and cursed. He was fifteen minutes early.

  I folded my newspaper and rose as he came through the door. Obviously he was taken aback to meet me. He touched his bowler in salute.

  ‘Major Picquart, good morning.’ And then, glancing around the crowded lobby, he added, ‘I fear some of the fellows may be playing a joke on me. I had a telegram on Saturday, supposedly from General Boisdeffre’s office, telling me to report for a staff review wearing civilian clothes, but nobody else seems to have received it.’

  ‘That sounds odd,’ I said. ‘May I see?’

  Dreyfus pulled the telegram out of his pocket book and handed it over: Summons. The Division General, Chief of the Army General Staff, will conduct an inspection of the officers on duty with the Staff during the day of Monday 15 October. M. Captain Dreyfus, currently with the 39th Regiment of the Infantry in Paris, is invited to be present on that date at 9 a.m., in the office of the Chief of the Army General. Civilian dress . . .

  I pretended to read it through carefully. I was playing for time. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Come to my office. Let’s get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘No, Major, please don’t concern yourself with it . . .’

  ‘Nonsense, I insist.’

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience . . .’

  ‘Really, I have plenty of time.’

  It seemed an endless walk to the Third Department, during which I could think of nothing to utter except banalities about the weather and his family. ‘And how is your wife?’

  ‘She’s very well, thank you, Major.’

  ‘And do you have children? I’m sorry, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Yes, Major – two.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘A boy and a girl.’

  ‘And how old are they?’

  ‘Pierre is three and Jeanne is one and a half . . .’

  And so on and so forth. It was a relief when we reached my door. ‘Why don’t you wait in here,’ I said, ‘while I check what’s going on.’

  ‘Thank you, Major.’

  He went inside and I closed the door. I checked my watch again. Ten to nine. For several minutes I paced up and down the corridor like a sentry, repeatedly glancing at my closed door, willing the time to pass, wondering if perhaps he had climbed out of the window and shinned down the drainpipe, or was at that moment rifling through my desk for secrets. At last, at two minutes to the hour, I went in to fetch him. He was sitting on the edge of a chair with his bowler hat on his knees. The papers on my desk were undisturbed. It didn’t look as if he’d moved a centimetre.

  ‘Your telegram is quite correct,’ I said brightly. ‘There is an inspection.’

  ‘What a relief!’ exclaimed Dreyfus, getting to his feet. ‘I really thought some of the fellows were playing a joke on me – they sometimes do, you know.’

  ‘I need to see the general myself. I’ll walk over with you.’

  Off we set again.

  Dreyfus said, ‘I hope I get the opportunity to have a word with General Boisdeffre. We had a really good talk about artillery formations in the summer. There are one or two additional points that have occurred to me since.’ I made no reply. Then he said, ‘You don’t happen to know how long this inspection is likely to take, do you, Major?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘The thing is, I told my wife I’d be home for lunch. Well, it doesn’t matter.’

  We had reached the wide, high-ceilinged passage leading to the office of the Chief of the General Staff.

  Dreyfus said, ‘I say, it’s awfully quiet, isn’t it? Where is everyone?’

  The double doors were up ahead. His pace was slowing. I willed him to complete the distance.

  I said, ‘I think they must all be inside waiting for you.’ I placed my hand in the small of his back and gently pressed him forward.

  We reached the door. I opened it. He turned to me, puzzled. ‘Aren’t you coming in as well, Major?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just remembered something I have to do. Goodbye.’

  I turned on my heel and walked away. Behind me I heard the click of a lock, and when I looked back the door was closed and Drey
fus was gone.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say to Gribelin, ‘what exactly happened that morning after I delivered Dreyfus to you and Colonel du Paty?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean, Colonel.’

  ‘You were there to act as a witness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, what was it you witnessed?’ The archivist stares at me as I pull out a chair. ‘Forgive all these questions, Monsieur Gribelin. I’m simply trying to fill in the gaps in my knowledge. It is a continuing case, after all.’ I indicate the chair opposite. ‘Sit down with me for a moment.’

  ‘If that is what you want, Colonel.’ Without taking his eyes off me, as if he suspects I might make a sudden lunge at him, Gribelin lowers his bony frame into the seat. ‘What do you want to know?’

  I light a cigarette, and make a great show of pulling the ashtray towards me. ‘We wouldn’t want a stray spark up here!’ I say with a smile, shaking out the match and placing it carefully in the ashtray. ‘So Dreyfus comes through the door, and then what?’

  It is as difficult as pulling teeth, but gradually I extract the story from him: how Dreyfus walked in, looked around and asked where General Boisdeffre was; how du Paty replied that he had been delayed, invited Dreyfus to sit down, indicated his gloved hand, and enquired if he wouldn’t mind taking down a letter for him as he had sprained his wrist; how Dreyfus did as he was asked, watched by Cochefort and his assistant, and by Gribelin who was sitting opposite him.

  ‘He must have started to get nervous,’ I suggest. ‘He must have wondered what was happening.’

  ‘He did, most definitely. You can see it in his handwriting. I can show you, in fact.’ Gribelin goes once again to his filing cabinet and returns with a bulging folder, several centimetres thick. He opens it. ‘The first item is the actual document Dreyfus wrote down at Colonel du Paty’s dictation.’ He pushes the file over to me. ‘You can see how his writing changes halfway through, as he realises he’s been trapped and tries to disguise it.’

  It starts like an ordinary letter: Paris, 15 October 1894. Having the most serious reasons, sir, for temporarily retaking possession of the documents I had passed on to you before taking off on manoeuvres . . .