An Officer And A Spy Part 30

On Monday, in the predawn darkness, I rise early, don the pale blue tunic of the 4th Tunisian Rifles, pin on the ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and, trailed by a pair of plainclothes police agents, make the familiar journey across Paris to the military court building in the rue Cherche-Midi.

The day is hostile from the start: cold, grey, spitting rain. In the street between the prison and the courthouse a dozen gendarmes stand dripping in their caps and capes, but there are no crowds for them to control. I walk over the slippery cobbled forecourt into the same bleak ex-nunnery in which Dreyfus was tried more than three years ago. A captain of the Republican Guard shows me into a holding room for witnesses. I am the first to arrive. It is a small whitewashed chamber with a single barred window set above head height, a flagstone floor and hard wooden chairs ranged around the sides. A coal-burner in the corner barely suffices to take the edge off the chill. Above it is a picture of Christ with a glowing index finger raised in benediction.

A few minutes later the door opens and Lauth sticks his blond head around the corner. I see from his uniform he has been promoted to major. He takes one look at me and hastily withdraws. Five minutes later he comes back in with Gribelin and they go over to the corner furthest away from me. They don't look once in my direction. Why are they here? I wonder. Then two more of my former officers show up. The same procedure: straight past me and into the corner huddle. Du Paty marches through the door as if he expects a band to strike up a tune at his entrance, whereas Gonse sidles in, smoking his inevitable cigarette. All keep their backs to me except for Henry, who enters loudly, banging the door, and nods as he pa.s.ses.

"You have a good colour, Colonel," he says cheerfully. "It must be all that African sunshine!"

"And yours must be all that cognac."

He roars with laughter and goes to sit with the others.

Gradually the room fills up with witnesses. My old friend Major Cure of the 74th Infantry Regiment carefully ignores me. I recognise the Vice President of the Senate, Auguste Scheurer-Kestner, who offers me his hand and murmurs quietly, "Well done." Mathieu Dreyfus enters with a slim, quiet, dark-haired young woman on his arm, dressed entirely in widow's black. She seems so young I a.s.sume she must be his daughter, but then he introduces her: "This is Madame Lucie Dreyfus, Alfred's wife. Lucie, this is Colonel Picquart." She gives me a faint smile of recognition but doesn't say anything, and nor do I. I feel uncomfortable, remembering those intimate, pa.s.sionate letters of hers-Live for me, I entreat you ... On the other side of the room du Paty eyes her keenly through his monocle and whispers something to Lauth: there was a story that he made a pa.s.s at her when he went to search her apartment after Dreyfus was arrested; I can believe it.

And so we sit, the military on one side of the room and I with the civilians, listening to the sounds of the proceedings getting under way above us: the thump of feet climbing the stairs, the cry of "Present arms!" as the judges arrive, and then a long interval of silence during which we wait for news. Eventually the clerk of the court appears and announces that the civil suits brought by the Dreyfus family have been rejected, and that therefore there will be no reconsideration of the original court-martial verdict, which stands. Also, the judges have voted by a majority that all the evidence given by military personnel will be heard in secret. Thus we have lost the battle before it even starts. With a practised stoicism, Lucie rises, expressionless, embraces Mathieu and leaves.

Another hour pa.s.ses, during which presumably Esterhazy is being questioned, and then the clerk returns and calls, "Monsieur Mathieu Dreyfus!" As the original complainant against Esterhazy to the Minister of War, he has the privilege of going first. He does not return. Forty-five minutes later Scheurer-Kestner is called. He does not return either. In this way the room gradually empties of its various handwriting experts and officers until at last, in the middle of the afternoon, Gonse and the men of the Statistical Section are all summoned en bloc. They file out, every one of them avoiding eye contact, except for Gonse, who at the last minute pauses on the threshold to look back at me. I cannot fathom his expression. Is it hatred, pity, bafflement, regret, or all of these? Or is it that he just wants to carry one last image of me in his mind before I disappear for ever? He stares for several seconds, and then he turns on his heel and the door closes, leaving me alone.

For several hours I wait, occasionally standing to pace the room to try to keep myself warm. More than ever, I wish Louis were with me. If I had any doubts of it before, I have none now: this is not Esterhazy's court-martial; it is mine.

By the time the clerk comes to fetch me, it is dark. Upstairs the court has been cleared of all civilians apart from the various lawyers. There are no outsiders. The atmosphere, in contrast to the freezing waiting room, is warm from the closely packed male bodies, almost clubbable; there is a drifting fug of tobacco smoke. Gonse, Henry, Lauth and the other officers of the Statistical Section watch me as I approach the judges' bench. Behind General Luxer, who is the president of the court, sits Pellieux, of all people; and there to my left is Esterhazy, lounging back more or less as I remember him on the only other occasion I saw him, with his feet stretched out and his arms hanging loosely at his sides, as relaxed as if he were still in the nightclub in Rouen. I have time only for a sidelong glance, but I am struck again by the singularity of his appearance. The bald, oddly delicate round head cranes up to look at me; a glittering eye, like a falcon's, focuses on me for an instant and then flickers away. He appears bored.

Luxer says, "State your name."

"Marie-Georges Picquart."

"Place of birth?"

"Strasbourg."

"Age?"

"Forty-three."

"When did the defendant first come to your attention?"

"About nine months after I was appointed chief of the secret intelligence section of the General Staff ..."

In all, I testify for perhaps four hours-an hour or so in the darkness of that late January afternoon and three hours the following morning. Pointless to relate it all: it is Pellieux redux. Indeed, Pellieux himself, in defiance of all the rules of procedure, seems to be in control of the court-martial. He leans forward to whisper advice to the president of the judges. He asks me hectoring questions. And whenever I try to bring up the names of Mercier, Boisdeffre and Billot, he interrupts me and orders me to be silent: "These distinguished officers have no relevance whatever to the case of Major Esterhazy!" His methods are so heavy-handed that halfway through the Tuesday morning session one of the judges asks the president of the court to intervene: "I see that Colonel Picquart is the true defendant here. I request that he be permitted to present all the explanations necessary to his defence."

Pellieux scowls and briefly falls silent, but Esterhazy's slippery young advocate, Maurice Tezenas, quickly takes over the attack: "Colonel Picquart, you have sought from the beginning to subst.i.tute my client for Dreyfus."

"That is not true."

"You forged the pet.i.t bleu."

"No."

"You conspired with your attorney, Matre Leblois, to blacken my client's name."

"No."

"You showed him the secret file relating to the conviction of Dreyfus as part of a plot to undermine public confidence in the original verdict."

"I did not."

"Come now, Colonel-several witnesses yesterday testified to this very court that they saw you do it!"

"That is impossible. What witnesses?"

"Colonel Henry, Major Lauth and Monsieur Gribelin."

I glance across the room to where they sit, impa.s.sive. "Well, they are mistaken."

Tezenas says, "I request that these officers step forward and confront this witness."

"Gentlemen, if you please." Luxer beckons to them to approach the bench. Esterhazy watches with an air of utter indifference, as if he is attending a particularly tedious play, the ending of which he already knows. Luxer says, "Colonel Henry, is there any doubt in your mind that you saw Colonel Picquart show doc.u.ments from the so-called secret dossier to Matre Leblois?"

"No, General. I went into his office late one afternoon about a departmental matter and he had the file on his desk. I recognised it at once because it has the initial letter 'D' on it, which I wrote there myself. The colonel had it open and was showing a particular doc.u.ment, containing the words 'that lowlife D,' to his friend Monsieur Leblois. I saw it all, as plain as I see you now, General."

I look at him in amazement: how is it possible to lie so brazenly? He stares back at me, entirely unfazed.

You order me to shoot a man and I'll shoot him ...

Luxer continues: "And so your testimony, Colonel Henry, is that you then went away and immediately described what you had seen to Major Lauth and Monsieur Gribelin?"

"I did. I was profoundly shocked by the whole thing."

"And the two of you both still swear this conversation took place?"

Lauth says fervently, "Yes, General."

"Absolutely, General," confirms Gribelin. He darts a glance at me. "I might add that I, too, saw Colonel Picquart show the file to his friend."

They have come to hate me, I realise, far more than they ever hated Dreyfus. I maintain my composure. "May I ask, Monsieur President, if Matre Leblois could come and give his opinion of this?"

Tezenas says, "I'm afraid, Monsieur President, that Matre Leblois is in Strasbourg."

"No," I say. "He returned late last night, accompanying the body of his father. He is waiting downstairs."

Tezenas shrugs. "Is he? My apologies: I did not know."

Louis is fetched. For a man in mourning, he is remarkably collected. Questioned about the meeting and the dossier, he confirms that there was no such meeting, no such file, "except for some nonsense about pigeons." He turns to the bench. "Could the court ask Colonel Henry when this incident is alleged to have occurred?"

Luxer gestures to Henry, who says, "Yes, it was in September '96."

"Well that is quite impossible," replies Louis, "because my father first fell ill in '96 and I was in Strasbourg the entire period from August to November of that year. I am quite sure of this-indeed I can prove it, because it was a condition of my visa that I had to report daily to the German authorities throughout my stay."

Luxer says, "Is it possible that you have made a mistake about the dates, Colonel Henry?"

Henry makes a pantomime of thinking this over, weighing his head from side to side. "Yes, I suppose it's possible. It could have been sooner than that. Or perhaps it could have been later."

"Or it could have been never at all," I say, "because I didn't take possession of the secret file until August, as Monsieur Gribelin can attest: it was he who retrieved it for me from Henry's desk. And in October, General Gonse over there"-I point to him-"took the file away from me again. So this entire incident simply could not have happened."

For the first time Henry stumbles, looks fl.u.s.tered. "Well, I'm not sure ... I can only repeat what I saw ..."

Pellieux comes to his rescue. "If I might make an observation, Monsieur President, at more than a year's distance it is quite difficult to give a precise date ..."

Luxer agrees. The session moves on. At lunchtime I am allowed to stand down.

Esterhazy's lawyer takes five hours to make his closing speech. The hearing continues until eight o'clock at night. At one point during his advocate's monologue Esterhazy seems to nod off, the bald cranium tilting back. When at last the judges rise to consider their verdict, he is led away past me, and gives me a stiff salute containing more than a hint of mockery. Mathieu Dreyfus, who has returned for the verdict and is sitting next to me, mutters, "What a rogue!" I get up with Louis to stretch my legs. I a.s.sume we will have several hours to wait. But less than five minutes later comes the cry of "Present arms!" and the doors reopen. The judges troop back in and the clerk reads out the verdict. "In the name of the people of France ... the council declares unanimously ... the accused is innocent ... he leaves the court without a stain upon his honour ..."

The rest of his words are lost in the volley of applause that cannonades around the stone walls. My brother officers stamp their feet. They clap. They cheer: "Vive l'armee!" "Vive la France!" and even "Death to the Jews!" The outcome was predetermined. I should not be shocked. And yet there are limits to how well the imagination can prepare one for disaster. As Mathieu and I make our way out of the courtroom, pursued by jeers and insults-"Death to the syndicate!" "Death to Picquart!"-I feel as if I have tumbled deep into some mineshaft from which it will be impossible to clamber back. All is darkness-indeed, Dreyfus is actually worse off than he was six months ago, for he has now been doubly condemned. It is impossible to imagine the army holding a third hearing.

Outside, beyond the murkily lit courtyard, a crowd of more than a thousand has gathered, despite the cold. They are clapping rhythmically and chanting their hero's name: "Es-ter-hazy! Es-ter-hazy!" All I want to do is get away. I walk towards the gate, but Louis and Mathieu restrain me. Louis says, "You mustn't go out there yet, Georges. Your picture has been in the papers. You'll be lynched."

At that moment Esterhazy comes out of the court building, escorted by his lawyer, Henry and du Paty and followed by an applauding retinue of black-uniformed soldiers. Esterhazy's face is transfigured, almost luminous with triumph. He wears a cape which he sweeps up onto his shoulder in a gesture of imperial magnificence, then steps out into the street. A terrific cheer goes up. Hands stretch out to pat his back. Someone shouts, "Hats off to the martyr of the Jews!"

Mathieu touches me on the arm. "Now we should go." He takes off his overcoat and helps me put it on over my distinctive tunic. With my head down and with him on one side of me and Louis on the other, I push my way out into the rue Cherche-Midi and turn in the opposite direction to Esterhazy, moving quickly along the wet pavement towards the distant traffic.

The next day is the funeral of Louis's father, Georges-Louis Leblois. A Lutheran pastor, a believer in scientific progress, a radical thinker who denied the divinity of Christ, the old man wished to be cremated. However, no such facilities exist in Strasbourg, therefore the ceremony has to take place in Paris at the new crematorium of Pere-Lachaise. The silence of the immense cemetery, with its shaded alleys, and the grey city in the plain below reaching towards the blue hills on the horizon make a profound impression on me. The mourners come up to me to commiserate on the previous day's verdict, shaking my hand and speaking in low tones, so that it almost feels as if I am the one who has died and I am attending my own obsequies.

While this is going on, I discover later, General Billot is signing my arrest warrant, and when I return to my apartment I find a notification that I will be taken into custody the next day.

They come for me just before dawn. I am already dressed in civilian clothes, my suitcase packed. An elderly colonel, accompanied by a private soldier, knocks on my door and shows me a copy of the warrant from General Billot: Colonel Picquart has been investigated for a serious breach of professional duties. He has committed grave errors in his service, contrary to army discipline. Therefore I have decided that he is to be held under arrest in the fortress of Mont-Valerien, until further orders.

The colonel says, "Sorry to call so early, but we thought we'd try to avoid these ghastly newspaper people. May I take your service revolver, please?"

The manager of the building, Monsieur Reigneau, who lives several doors along the street, comes to see what all the noise is about. I pa.s.s him with my escort on the stairs. Afterwards he reveals to Le Figaro my parting words: "You see what is happening to me. But I am quite calm. You will have read in the papers all that they say about me. Continue to believe that I am an honest man."

Drawn up outside is a large military carriage harnessed to two white horses. There has been a hard frost overnight. It is still dark. A red lamp from the building works opposite gleams faintly on the frozen puddles. The private takes my suitcase and clambers up next to the driver while the colonel politely opens the door and allows me to go first into the carriage. n.o.body is in the street to witness my disgrace, apart from Reigneau. We turn left into the rue Copernic and head towards the place Victor Hugo. There are a few early risers queuing to buy newspapers on the corner of the roundabout, and even more further along at the kiosk on the place de L'etoile. As we pa.s.s I catch a glimpse of a huge banner headline, "J'Accuse ...!" and I say to the colonel, "If a condemned man is allowed a final request, do you think we might stop for a newspaper?"

"A newspaper?" The colonel looks at me as if I am mad. "Well, I suppose so, if you must."

He calls up to the driver to pull over. I get out and walk back towards the vendor. The private soldier trails behind me at a discreet distance; ahead the sky is just beginning to lighten above the avenue du Bois de Boulogne, silhouetting the bare tops of the trees. The paper everyone is queuing to buy is Clemenceau's L'Aurore, and the headline, spread across the top of all six columns, is: J'Accuse...!

LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC.

BY eMILE ZOLA.

I join the queue to buy a copy and walk slowly back towards the carriage. There is just enough light from the streetlamps for me to make it out. The piece takes up the entire front page, thousands of words of polemic, cast in the form of a letter to President Faure (Knowing your integrity, I am convinced that you are unaware of the truth...). I skim it with increasing astonishment.

Can you believe that for the last year General Billot, Generals Gonse and Boisdeffre have known that Dreyfus is innocent, and they have kept this terrible knowledge to themselves? And these people sleep at night, and have wives and children they love!

Colonel Picquart carried out his duty as an honest man. He kept insisting to his superiors in the name of justice. He even begged them, telling them how impolitic it was to temporise in the face of the terrible storm that was brewing and that would break when the truth became known. But no! The crime had been committed and the General Staff could no longer admit to it. And so Colonel Picquart was sent away on official duty. He got sent further and further away until he landed in Tunisia, where they tried eventually to reward his courage with an a.s.signment that would certainly have seen him ma.s.sacred.

I come to a halt in the middle of the pavement.

And the astounding outcome of this appalling situation was that the one decent man involved, Colonel Picquart, who alone had done his duty, was to become the victim, the one who got ridiculed and punished. O justice, what horrible despair grips our hearts? It was even claimed that he himself was the forger, that he had fabricated the letter-telegram in order to destroy Esterhazy. Yes! We have before us the ign.o.ble spectacle of men who are sunken in debts and crimes being hailed as innocent, whereas the honour of a man whose life is spotless is being vilely attacked. A society that sinks to that level has fallen into decay.

Behind me the soldier says, "We really ought to be going, Colonel, if you don't mind."

"Yes, of course. Just let me finish this."

I flick through to the end.

I accuse Colonel du Paty de Clam of being the diabolical creator of this miscarriage of justice ...

I accuse General Mercier of complicity, at least by mental weakness, in one of the greatest inequities of the century.

I accuse General Billot of having held in his hands absolute proof of Dreyfus's innocence and concealing it, thereby making himself guilty of crimes against mankind and justice ...

I accuse General Boisdeffre and General Gonse of complicity in the same crime ...

I accuse General Pellieux of conducting a fraudulent inquiry ...

I accuse the three handwriting experts ...

I accuse the Ministry of War ...

I accuse the first court-martial of violating the law by convicting the accused on the basis of evidence that was kept secret, and I accuse the second court-martial of knowingly acquitting a guilty man in obedience to orders ...

In making these accusations I am aware that I am making myself liable to a punishable offence of libel ...

Let them dare to bring me before a court of law and investigate in the full light of day!

I am waiting.

With my deepest respect, Monsieur President, emile Zola I fold up the paper and clamber back into the carriage.

The elderly colonel says, "Anything interesting?" Without waiting for my reply he adds: "I didn't think so. There never is." He thumps the roof of the carriage. "Drive on!"

20.