An Officer and a Spy (29 page)

Boisdeffre taps the map and says, “It’s this initial stretch here, between the Ranelagh railway station and the porte Dauphine, that causes me most concern. The First Department tells me we shall
need thirty-two thousand men, including cavalry, simply to keep the crowd at a safe distance.”

“Let’s hope the Germans don’t choose that moment to attack us in the east.”

“Indeed.” Boisdeffre finishes writing and looks at me with his full attention for the first time. “So, Colonel, what do we need to talk about? Please.” He sits, and indicates that I should take the chair opposite him. “Is it about the Russian visit?”

“No, General. It’s about the matter we discussed in the automobile on your return from Vichy—the suspected traitor, Esterhazy.”

It takes him a moment to search back through his memory. “Ah yes, I remember. Where do we stand on that?”

“If I could just clear some space …”

“By all means.”

I roll up the map. Boisdeffre takes out his silver snuff box. He places a pinch on the back of his hand and takes two quick sniffs, one in either nostril. He watches as I open my briefcase and extract the documents I need for my presentation: the
petit bleu
, a photograph of the
bordereau
, Esterhazy’s letters requesting a transfer to the General Staff, the surveillance photographs of Esterhazy outside the German Embassy, the secret dossier on Dreyfus and my four-page report on the investigation to date. His expression grows increasingly astonished. “Good heavens, my dear Picquart,” he says, half amused, “what
have
you been doing?”

“We have quite a serious problem to confront, General. I feel it’s my duty to bring it to your attention right away.”

Boisdeffre winces and casts a wistful look at the rolled map: plainly, he would prefer not to be dealing with this. “Very well, then,” he sighs. “As you wish. Proceed.”

I take him through it step by step: the interception of the
petit bleu
, my initial inquiries into Esterhazy, Operation Benefactor. I show him the pictures taken from the apartment in the rue de Lille. “Here you can see he takes an envelope into the embassy, and here he leaves without it.”

Boisdeffre peers short-sightedly at the photographs. “My God, the things you fellows can do nowadays!”

“The saving grace is that Esterhazy has no access to important classified material: what he offers them is so trivial even the Germans want to sever their connection with him. However,” I say, sliding over the two letters, “Esterhazy is now trying to turn himself into a much more valuable agent, by applying for a position in the ministry—where of course he would have ready access to secrets.”

“How did you get hold of these?”

“General Billot instructed his staff to give them to me.”

“When was this?”

“Last Thursday.” I pause to clear my throat.
Here goes
, I think. “I noticed almost immediately a striking similarity between Esterhazy’s two letters and the writing of the
bordereau
. You can see it for yourself. Naturally, I am no handwriting expert, so I took them the next day to Monsieur Bertillon. You remember …”

“Yes, yes.” Boisdeffre’s voice is suddenly faint, dazed. “Yes, of course I remember.”

“He confirmed that the writing is identical. It then seemed to me, in the light of this, that I should review the rest of the evidence against Dreyfus. Accordingly, I consulted the secret file that was shown to the judges at the court-martial—”

“Just a moment, Colonel.” Boisdeffre holds up his hand. “Wait. When you say you consulted the file, do you mean to tell me it
still exists
?”

“Absolutely. This is it.” I show him the envelope with “D” written on it. I empty out the contents.

Boisdeffre looks at me as if I have just vomited over his table. “My God, what have you got there?”

“It’s the secret file from the court-martial.”

“Yes, yes—I can see what it is. But what is it doing
here
?”

“I’m sorry, General? I don’t understand …”

“It was supposed to have been dispersed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, of course! The whole episode was highly irregular.” He pokes gingerly at the pieced-together letters with a long, slim forefinger. “There was a meeting in the minister’s office soon after Dreyfus was convicted. I was present with Colonel Sandherr. General Mercier
specifically ordered him to break up the file. The intercepted letters were to be returned to the archive, the commentaries destroyed—he was absolutely clear about it.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say, General.” Now I am the one who is bewildered. “Colonel Sandherr didn’t disperse it, as you can see. In fact he was the one who told me where to find it if I ever needed it. But if I may say so, perhaps the existence of the file is not the main issue we have to worry about.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, the
bordereau
—the handwriting—the fact that Dreyfus is innocent …” My voice trails away.

Boisdeffre blinks at me for a few moments. Then he starts gathering together all the papers and photographs that are spread across the table. “I think what you need to do, Colonel, is to go and see General Gonse. Don’t let us forget he is the head of the intelligence department. Really you should have gone to him rather than me. Ask his advice on what needs to be done.”

“I shall do that, General, absolutely. But I do think we need to move quickly and decisively, for the army’s own sake …”

“I know perfectly well what’s good for the army, Colonel,” he says curtly. “You don’t need to worry on that account.” He holds out the evidence. “Go and talk to General Gonse. He’s on leave at the moment, but he’s only just outside Paris.”

I take the papers and open my briefcase. “May I at least leave my report with you?” I search through the bundle. “It’s a summary of where matters stand at the moment.”

Boisdeffre eyes it as if it’s a snake. “Very well,” he says reluctantly. “Give me twenty-four hours to consider it.” I stand and salute. When I am at the door he calls to me: “Do you remember what I told you when we were in my motorcar, Colonel Picquart? I told you that I didn’t want another Dreyfus case.”

“This isn’t another Dreyfus case, General,” I reply. “It’s the same one.”

The next morning I see Boisdeffre again briefly, when I go to retrieve my report. He hands it back to me without a word. There are dark
semicircles under his eyes. He looks like a man who has been punched.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “to bring you a potential problem at a time when you have issues of such immense importance to deal with. I hope it isn’t too much of a distraction.”

“What?” The Chief of the General Staff lets out his breath in a gasp of exasperated disbelief. “Do you really think, after what you told me yesterday, that I got a moment’s sleep last night? Now go and talk to Gonse.”

The Gonse family house lies just beyond the northwest edge of Paris, in Cormeilles-en-Parisis. I send a telegram to the general announcing that Boisdeffre would like me to brief him on an urgent matter. Gonse invites me to tea on Thursday.

That afternoon I take the train from the gare Saint-Lazare. Half an hour later I alight in a village so rural I might be two hundred kilometres from the centre of Paris rather than twenty. The departing train dwindles down the track into the distance and I am left entirely alone on the empty platform. Nothing disturbs the silence except birdsong and the distant clip-clop of a carthorse pulling a wagon with a squeaking wheel. I walk over to the porter and ask for directions to the rue de Franconville. “Ah,” he says, taking in my uniform and briefcase, “you’ll be wanting the general.”

I follow his instructions along a country lane out of the village and up a hill, through wooded country, then down a drive to a spacious eighteenth-century farmhouse. Gonse is working in the garden in his shirtsleeves, wearing a battered straw hat. An old retriever lopes across the lawn towards me. The general straightens and leans on his rake. With his tubby stomach and short legs he makes a more plausible gardener than he does a general.

“My dear Picquart,” he says, “welcome to the sticks.”

“General.” I salute. “My apologies for interrupting your vacation.”

“Think nothing of it, dear fellow. Come and have some tea.” He takes my arm and leads me into the house. The interior is crammed with Japanese artefacts of the highest quality—antique silkscreens,
masks, bowls, vases. Gonse notices my surprise. “My brother’s a collector,” he explains. “This is his place for most of the year.”

Tea has been laid out in a garden room full of wicker furniture: petits fours on the low table, a samovar on the sideboard. Gonse pours me a cup of lapsang souchong. The cane seat squeaks as he sits down. He lights a cigarette. “Well then. Go ahead.”

Like a commercial traveller, I unlock my briefcase and lay out my wares among the porcelain. It is an awkward moment for me: this is the first time I have even mentioned my investigation of Esterhazy to Gonse, the Chief of Intelligence. I show him the
petit bleu
, and in an attempt to make it seem less of an insult, I pretend that it arrived in late April rather than early March. Then I repeat the presentation I made to Boisdeffre. As I hand him the documents, Gonse studies each in turn, in his usual methodical manner. He spills cigarette ash onto the surveillance photographs, makes a joke of it—“Covering up the crime!”—and blows it away calmly. Even when I produce the secret file he looks unperturbed.

I suspect Boisdeffre must have warned him beforehand of what I was planning to tell him.

“In conclusion,” I say, “I had hoped to find something in the file that would establish Dreyfus’s guilt beyond doubt. But I’m afraid there’s nothing. It wouldn’t withstand ten minutes’ cross-examination by a halfway decent attorney.”

I lay down the last of the documents and sip my tea, which is now stone cold. Gonse lights another cigarette. After a pause he says, “So we got the wrong man?”

He says it matter-of-factly, as one might say, “So we took the wrong turning?” or “So I wore the wrong hat?”

“I’m afraid it looks like it.”

Gonse plays with a match as he considers this, flicking it around and between his fingers with great dexterity, then snaps it. “And yet how do you explain the contents of the
bordereau
? None of this changes our original hypothesis, does it? It must have been written by an artillery officer who had some experience of all four departments of the General Staff. And that’s not Esterhazy. That’s Dreyfus.”

“On the contrary, this is where we made our original error. If
you look at the
bordereau
again, you’ll see it always talks about
notes
being handed over: a
note
on the hydraulic brake … a
note
on covering troops … a
note
on artillery formations … a
note
on Madagascar …” I point out what I mean on the photograph. “In other words, these aren’t the original documents. The only document that
was
actually handed over—the firing manual—we know that Esterhazy acquired by going on a gunnery course. Therefore I’m afraid the
bordereau
indicates precisely the opposite of what we thought it did. The traitor wasn’t on the General Staff. He didn’t have access to secrets. He was an outsider, a confidence trickster if you like, picking up gossip, compiling notes and trying to sell them for money. It was Esterhazy.”

Gonse settles back in his chair. “May I make a suggestion, dear Picquart?”

“Yes please, General.”

“Forget about the
bordereau
.”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget about the
bordereau
. Investigate Esterhazy if you like, but don’t bring the
bordereau
into it.”

I take my time responding. I know he is dim, but this is absurd. “With respect, General, the
bordereau
—the fact that it’s in Esterhazy’s handwriting, and the fact that we know he took an interest in artillery—the
bordereau is
the main evidence against Esterhazy.”

“Well you’ll have to find something else.”

“But the
bordereau—
” I bite my tongue. “Might I ask why?”

“I should have thought that was obvious. A court-martial has already decided who wrote the
bordereau
. That case is closed. I believe it’s what the lawyers call res judicata: ‘a matter already judged.’ ” He smiles at me through his cigarette smoke, pleased to have remembered this piece of schoolroom Latin.

“But if we discover Esterhazy was the traitor and Dreyfus wasn’t …?”

“Well we won’t discover that, will we? That’s the point. Because, as I have just explained to you, the Dreyfus case is over. The court has pronounced its verdict and that is the end of that.”

I gape at him. I swallow. Somehow I need to convey to him, in the words of the cynical expression, that what he is suggesting is
worse than a crime: it is a blunder. “Well,” I begin carefully, “
we
may wish it to be over, General, and our lawyers may indeed tell us that it is over. But the Dreyfus family feel differently. And putting aside any other considerations, I am worried, frankly, about the damage to the army’s reputation if it were to emerge one day that we knew his conviction was unsafe and we did nothing about it.”

“Then it had better not emerge, had it?” he says cheerfully. He is smiling, but there is a threat in his eyes. “So there we are. I’ve said all I have to say on the matter.” The arms of the wicker chair squeak in protest as he pushes himself to his feet. “Leave Dreyfus out of it, Colonel. That’s an order.”

On the train back to Paris I sit with my briefcase clutched tightly in my lap. I stare out bleakly at the rear balconies and washing lines of the northern suburbs, and the soot-caked stations—Colombes, Asnières, Clichy. I can hardly believe what has just occurred. I keep going over the conversation in my mind. Did I make some mistake in my presentation? Should I have laid it out more clearly—told him in plain terms that the so-called evidence in the secret file crumbles into the mere dust of conjecture compared to what we know for sure about Esterhazy? But the more I think of it, the more certain I am that such frankness would have been a grave error. Gonse is utterly intransigent: nothing I can say will shift his opinion; there is no way on earth, as far as he’s concerned, that Dreyfus will be brought back for a retrial. To have pushed it even further would only have led to a complete breakdown in our relations.