An Officer and a Spy (26 page)

“Good,” said Maurel. “Now we can begin to consider the evidence. Would the prisoner please stand? Monsieur Vallecalle, read the indictment …”

For the next three afternoons, at the end of each day’s session, I would hurry down the stairs, past the waiting journalists—whose questions I would ignore—stride out into the winter dusk, and pace along the icy pavements for seven hundred and twenty metres exactly—I counted them each time—from the rue du Cherche-Midi to the hôtel de Brienne.

“Major Picquart to see the Minister of War …”

My briefings of the minister always followed the same pattern. Mercier would listen with close attention. He would ask a few terse and pertinent questions. Afterwards he would send me off to Boisdeffre to repeat what I had just said. Boisdeffre, only recently returned from the funeral of Tsar Alexander III in Moscow, his noble head no doubt stuffed full of matters Russian, would hear me through to the end courteously and mostly without comment. From Boisdeffre I would be taken in a War Ministry carriage to the Élysée Palace. There I would brief the President of the Republic himself, the lugubrious Jean Casimir-Perier—an uncomfortable assignment, as the President had long suspected his Minister of War of scheming behind his back. In fact Casimir-Perier was by this time something of a prisoner himself—cut off in his gilded apartments, ignored by
his ministers, reduced to a purely ceremonial role. He made clear his contempt for the army by not once inviting me to sit. His response to my narrative was to punctuate it throughout with sarcastic remarks and snorts of disbelief: “It sounds like the plot of a comic opera!”

Privately I shared his misgivings, and they grew as the week progressed. On the first day the witnesses were the six key men who had put together the case against Dreyfus: Gonse, Fabre and d’Aboville, Henry, Gribelin and du Paty. Gonse explained how easily Dreyfus could have got access to the secret documents handed over with the
bordereau
. Fabre and d’Aboville described his suspicious behaviour while serving in the Fourth Department. Henry testified to the genuineness of the
bordereau
as evidence retrieved from the German Embassy. Gribelin—drawing on police reports compiled by Guénée—painted a picture of Dreyfus as a womaniser and gambler, which I found frankly unbelievable. But du Paty insisted Dreyfus was driven by “animal urges” and that he was
canaille
—lowlife—despite his rather prim appearance (Dreyfus simply shook his head at this). Du Paty also alleged the accused had made conscious changes to disguise his handwriting during dictation—an accusation gravely undermined when Demange showed him samples of Dreyfus’s hand, asked him to point out where these transitions occurred, and du Paty was unable to do so.

Taken together, it was not impressive.

At the end of my first report, when Mercier asked me how I thought the prosecution case was looking, I hemmed and hawed. “Now then, Major,” he said softly, “your honest opinion, please. That’s why I put you in there.”

“Well, Minister, in my honest view, it’s all very circumstantial. We have shown beyond doubt that the traitor
could
have been Dreyfus; we have not proved definitely that it
was
him.”

Mercier grunted but made no further comment. However, the next day when I turned up at the court building for the start of the second day’s evidence, Henry was waiting for me.

He said in an accusing tone, “I hear you’ve told the minister our case is looking thin.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Now, Major Henry, don’t look so offended. Will you join me?” I offered him a cigarette, which he took grudgingly. I struck a match and lit his first. “I didn’t say it was thin, exactly, just not specific enough.”

“My God,” replied Henry, exhaling a jet of smoke in a sigh of frustration, “it’s easy enough for you to say that. If only you knew how much specific evidence we have against that swine. We even have a letter from a foreign intelligence officer in which he’s identified as the traitor—can you believe it?”

“Then use it.”

“How can we? It would betray our most secret sources. It would do more damage than Dreyfus has caused already.”

“Even with the hearing behind closed doors?”

“Don’t be naïve, Picquart! Every word uttered in that room will leak one day.”

“Well, then I don’t know what to suggest.”

Henry drew deeply on his cigarette. “How would it be,” he asked, glancing around to check he was not being overheard, “if I came back into court and described some of the evidence we have on file?”

“But you’ve already given your evidence.”

“Couldn’t I be recalled?”

“On what pretext?”

“Couldn’t you have a word with Colonel Maurel and suggest it?”

“What reason could I give him?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure we could come up with something.”

“My dear Henry, I’m here to observe the court-martial, not interfere in it.”

“Fine,” said Henry bitterly. He took a last drag from his cigarette then dropped it on to the flagstone floor and ground it out with the toe of his boot. “I’ll do it myself.”

That second morning was devoted to a parade of officers from the General Staff. They queued up to denigrate their former comrade, to his face. They described a man who snooped around their desks, refused to fraternise with them and always acted as if he was their intellectual superior. One claimed Dreyfus had told him he
didn’t care if Alsace was under German occupation because he was a Jew, and Jews, having no country of their own, were indifferent to changes of frontier. Throughout all this, Dreyfus’s expression betrayed no emotion. One might have thought him stone deaf or wilfully not listening. But every so often he would raise his hand to signal he wished to speak. Then he would calmly correct a point of fact in his toneless voice: this piece of testimony was wrong because he had not been in the department then; that statement was an error because he had never met the gentleman concerned. He seemed to have no anger in him. He was an automaton. Several officers did say a word or two in his defence. My old friend Mercier-Milon called him “a faithful and scrupulous soldier.” Captain Tocanne, who had attended my topography classes with Dreyfus, said he was “incapable of a crime.”

And then, at the start of the afternoon session, one of the judges, Major Gallet, announced he had an important issue to bring to the court’s attention. It was his understanding, he said gravely, that there had been an earlier inquiry into a suspected traitor on the General Staff, even before the investigation into Dreyfus began in October. If true, he regretted that this fact had been withheld from the court. He suggested that the matter should be cleared up right away. Colonel Maurel agreed, and told the clerk to recall Major Henry. A few minutes later, Henry appeared, apparently embarrassed and buttoning his tunic, as if he had been dragged from a bar. I made a note of the time: 2:35.

Demange could have objected to Henry’s recall. But Henry was putting on such a virtuoso performance of being a reluctant witness—standing bareheaded before the judges, fidgeting nervously with his cap—he must have gambled that whatever was coming might work to Dreyfus’s advantage.

“Major Henry,” said Maurel severely, “the court has received information that your evidence yesterday was less than frank, and that you neglected to tell us about an earlier inquiry you made into the existence of a spy on the General Staff. Is that correct?”

Henry mumbled, “It is true, Monsieur President.”

“Speak up, Major! We can’t hear you!”

“Yes, it’s true,” replied Henry, loudly. He glanced along the row of judges with a look of defiant apology. “I wished to avoid revealing any more secret information than was necessary.”

“Tell us the truth now, if you please.”

Henry sighed and stroked his hand through his hair. “Very well,” he said. “If the court insists. It was in March of this year. An honourable person—a very honourable person—informed us that there was a traitor on the General Staff, passing secrets to a foreign power. In June he repeated his warning to me personally, and this time he was more specific.” Henry paused.

“Go on, Major.”

“He said the traitor was in the Second Department.” Henry turned to Dreyfus and pointed at him. “The traitor is that man!”

The accusation detonated in that little room like a grenade. Dreyfus, hitherto so calm he had seemed scarcely human, jumped up to protest at this ambush. His pale face was livid with anger. “Monsieur President, I demand to know the name of this informer!”

Maurel banged his gavel. “The accused will sit!”

Demange grabbed the back of his client’s tunic and tried to tug him down into his seat. “Leave it to me, Captain,” I heard him whisper. “That’s what you’re paying me for.” Unwillingly, Dreyfus sat. Demange rose and said, “Monsieur President, this is hearsay evidence—an outrage to justice. The defence absolutely demands that this informant be called so that he can be cross-examined. Otherwise, none of what has just been said has any legal weight whatsoever. Major Henry, at the very least you must tell us this man’s name.”

Henry looked at him with contempt. “It’s obvious you know nothing about intelligence, Mâitre Demange!” He waved his cap at him. “There are some secrets an officer carries in his head that even his cap isn’t allowed to know!”

That brought Dreyfus to his feet again—“This is outrageous!”—and once again Maurel gavelled for order.

“Major Henry,” said Maurel, “we will not demand the name, but do you affirm on your honour that the treasonous officer referred to was Captain Dreyfus?”

Henry slowly raised a fat and stubby forefinger and pointed to the picture of Christ above the judges’ heads. In a voice as fervent as a priest’s he proclaimed: “I swear it!”

I described the exchange to Mercier that evening.

He said, “You make it sound highly dramatic.”

“I think one may safely say that if Major Henry ever leaves the army, the Comédie-Française will stand ready to receive him.”

“But will his evidence have the desired effect?”

“In terms of theatre it was first-class. Whether it carries much weight legally is another question.”

The minister sat back low in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers. He brooded. “Who are the witnesses tomorrow?”

“In the morning, the handwriting expert, Bertillon; in the afternoon, the defence is producing witnesses to Dreyfus’s good character.”

“Who?”

“Family friends—a businessman, a doctor, the Chief Rabbi of Paris—”

“Oh, good God!” cried Mercier. It was the first time I had seen him display emotion. “How absurd is this? Do you imagine the Germans would permit such a circus? The Kaiser would simply have a traitor in his army put against a wall and shot!” He propelled himself out of his chair and went over to the fireplace. “This is one of the reasons why we lost in ’70—we completely lack their
ruthlessness
.” He picked up the poker and stabbed viciously at the coals, sending a spray of orange sparks whirling up the chimney. I was unsure how to respond, so I stayed silent. I confess I had some sympathy for his predicament. He was fighting a life-or-death battle, but without being able to deploy his best troops. After a while, still staring into the flames, he said quietly, “Colonel Sandherr has put together a file for the court-martial. I’ve seen it. So has Boisdeffre. It proves the extent of Dreyfus’s crimes beyond any doubt. What do you think I should do with it?”

I replied without hesitation, “Show it to the court.”

“We can’t—that would mean showing it to Dreyfus. We could,
perhaps, show it to the judges, in confidence, so that they can see what we’re dealing with.”

“Then I would do it.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Even though it breaks all the rules of legal procedure?”

“I can only say that if you don’t, there’s a chance he may be acquitted. Under the circumstances, some would say it is your duty.”

I was telling him what he wanted to hear. Not that it would have made any difference. He would have done it anyway. I left him still poking at his fire.

The following morning Bertillon gave his evidence. He came in laden with various charts and handwriting samples which he passed out to the judges, and to the defence and the prosecution. He set up an easel with a complicated diagram involving arrows. “Two handwriting experts,” he said, “have maintained that Dreyfus wrote the
bordereau
; two have pointed out discrepancies and concluded he did not. I, Monsieur President, shall reconcile these different opinions.”

He paced up and down the confined space, dark and hirsute, like a small ape in a cage. He talked very rapidly. Occasionally he pointed at the chart.

“Gentlemen, you will see that I have taken the
bordereau
and ruled vertical and horizontal lines over it at a distance of five millimetres. What do we find? We find that the words that occur twice—
manoeuvres, modifications, disposal, copy
—all begin, within a millimetre, in exactly the same part of one of the squares I have ruled. There is a one-in-five chance that this might happen in any single case. The odds of it happening in all these cases are sixteen in ten thousand. The odds of it occurring with all the other words I have analysed are one hundred million to one! Conclusion: this could not happen with a naturally written document. Conclusion: the
bordereau
is forged.

“Question: who forged it, and why? Answer: look again at the polysyllables repeated within the
bordereau—manoeuvres, modifications
. When you place one over the other, you find that the beginnings coincide while the ends do not. But shift the word that comes earliest a millimetre and a quarter to the right, and the ends coincide
also. Gentlemen, the writing of Alfred Dreyfus supplied to me by the Ministry of War exhibits exactly the same peculiarities! And as for the differences between the culprit’s hand and the
bordereau
—the ‘o’ and the double ‘s,’ most obviously—imagine my astonishment when I found exactly these letter formulations in correspondence seized from the culprit’s wife and brother! Five millimetres reticulation, twelve point five centimetres gabarit and a millimetre and a quarter imbrication! Always you find it—always—always! Final conclusion: Dreyfus forged his own handwriting to avoid detection, by modifying it with formulations taken from his family!”