An Officer And A Spy Part 37

"He has just had his old comrades round to dinner," I say. "Boisdeffre, Gonse, Pellieux, Billot-they are in and out of there constantly."

"I hear he's planning to run for the Senate. This trial is a great platform for him. If it weren't for his political ambitions, their side would lack direction."

"If it weren't for his political ambitions," I reply, "the whole thing might never have happened. He thought Dreyfus could be his ticket to the presidency."

"He still does."

Mercier is scheduled to give his evidence on Sat.u.r.day-the first day that the press and public will be allowed back into the courtroom since the opening session. His appearance is only slightly less eagerly awaited than that of Dreyfus himself. He arrives in court wearing the full undress uniform of a general-red tunic, black trousers, with a kepi of crimson and gold. On his breast glints the medal of a Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour. When he is called, he rises from his place among the military witnesses and walks to the front of the court carrying a black leather doc.u.ment case. He stands no more than two paces from where Dreyfus is sitting, but doesn't once glance in his direction.

"My deposition," he says, in his quiet, hoa.r.s.e voice, "will have to be a trifle long."

Jouaust says unctuously, "Usher, fetch a chair for the general."

Mercier speaks for three hours, producing doc.u.ment after doc.u.ment from his black leather case-among them the "lowlife D" letter, which he continues to insist refers to Dreyfus, and even the fabricated Guenee reports about a spy in the intelligence department, although he leaves out the name of the source, Val Carlos. He pa.s.ses them up to Jouaust, who hands them along the line of judges. After a while, Labori leans back in his chair and cranes his head to look at me, as if to say, "What is this idiot doing?" I am careful to maintain a neutral expression, but I think he is right: by introducing the evidence of the secret dossier into open court, Mercier is exposing a dangerous flank for Labori to attack in cross-examination.

On and on drones Mercier, like some paranoid, illiterate editorial in La Libre Parole seeing Jewish conspiracies everywhere. He alleges that thirty-five million francs have been raised to free Dreyfus in England and Germany. He quotes as if it is fact what Dreyfus is supposed to have said about the occupation of Alsace-Lorraine, and has always denied: "For us Jews it is not the same thing; where we are, our G.o.d is." He drags up the old myth of the "confession" before the degradation. He spins the most fantastical explanation as to why he showed the secret dossier to the judges at the court-martial, claiming that because of the Dreyfus controversy the country was "within two finger-breadths of war" with Germany-so much so that he had ordered General Boisdeffre to be ready to dispatch the telegrams that would trigger a full mobilisation while he, Mercier, sat with President Casimir-Perier in the elysee Palace until half past midnight waiting to see if the German emperor would back down.

Casimir-Perier, who is sitting with the witnesses, actually rises to challenge this lie, and when Jouaust won't permit him to intervene, he shakes his head at such nonsense, which causes a sensation in the court.

Mercier takes no notice. It is the old paranoia about Germany, the lingering stench of defeatism after 1870. He presses on. "Now," he says, "at that moment, should we have desired war? Should I, as Minister of War, have desired for my country a war undertaken in these conditions? I did not hesitate to say 'no.' On the other hand, was I to leave the court-martial in ignorance of the charges against Dreyfus? These doc.u.ments"-he pats the case on the stand in front of him-"then formed what was called the secret dossier, and I regarded it as imperative that the judges should see them. Could I not have relied on the comparative secrecy of a trial behind closed doors? No, I have no confidence in closed doors! Sooner or later the press manages to get hold of all it wants and publishes it, despite the threats of the government. In these circ.u.mstances, I placed the secret doc.u.ments in a sealed envelope and sent them to the president of the court-martial."

Dreyfus is sitting straight up in his chair now, looking at Mercier with intense astonishment, and something else, something beyond amazement-for the first time: burning anger.

Mercier does not see it because he is carefully not looking at him. "Let me add one last word," he says. "I have not reached my age without having had the sad experience of learning that all that is human is liable to error. But if I am weak-minded, as Monsieur Zola has alleged, I am at least an honest man and the son of an honest man. And if the slightest doubt had ever crossed my mind, I should be the first to declare it"-and now finally he turns in his chair to look at Dreyfus-"and to say, before you all, to Captain Dreyfus, 'I have blundered in good faith.' "

The cheap theatrical touch is too much for the prisoner to bear. Suddenly, and incredibly, without the least trace of stiffness in his legs, Dreyfus springs to his feet, clenches his fist and swings round at Mercier as if to strike him, roaring in a terrible voice, half cry and half sob: "That is what you should say!"

The whole court draws in its breath. The officials are too stunned to move. Only Mercier seems unaffected. He ignores the figure looming over him. "I would say to Captain Dreyfus," he repeats patiently, " 'I have been honestly mistaken. I acknowledge it in good faith and will do all in my power to repair a terrible mistake.' "

Dreyfus is still on his feet, staring down at him, his arm raised. "It is your duty!"

There is a round of applause, mostly from the journalists; I join in.

Mercier smiles slightly, as if confronted by overemotional children, shakes his head, waits for the demonstration to die down. "No, it is not so. My conviction since 1894 has not undergone the slightest change. In fact it has actually been strengthened, not only by a thorough study of the secret dossier but by the pathetic case that has been made for Dreyfus's innocence by his supporters, despite all the frantic efforts and the millions spent on his behalf. There. I have done."

With that, Mercier closes his leather case, stands, bows to the judges, collects his kepi from the shelf in front of him, tucks the doc.u.ments under his arm, and turns to walk out of the court, to a loud accompaniment of jeers. As he pa.s.ses the press benches, one of the reporters-it is Georges Bourdon of Le Figaro-hisses at him, "a.s.sa.s.sin!"

Mercier stops and points at him. "This fellow just called me an a.s.sa.s.sin!"

The army prosecutor rises. "Monsieur President, I demand that man be arrested for contempt."

Jouaust calls to the sergeant-at-arms, "Take him into custody!"

As soldiers close in on Bourdon, Labori rises. "Monsieur President, excuse me, but I would like to question the witness."

"Of course, Matre Labori," replies Jouaust, coolly checking his watch, "but it is already after twelve, and tomorrow is Sunday. You will have your chance at six-thirty on Monday morning. Until then the court is adjourned."

24.

Mercier's testimony is held to have been a disaster-a grave disappointment to his own side, as he failed to provide the promised "proof" that Dreyfus was guilty, and an opportunity for ours, in that Labori-generally considered to be the most aggressive cross-examiner at the Paris bar-will now have the chance to challenge him on the witness stand about the secret file. All he needs is sufficient ammunition, and on Sunday morning I walk to his lodgings to help him prepare. I have no qualms about breaking the last vestiges of my oath of confidentiality: if Mercier can talk about matters of national security, so can I.

"The point about Mercier," I say, when Labori and I are ensconced in his makeshift study, "is that the Dreyfus affair would never have happened without him. He was the one who ordered the spy hunt to be confined to the General Staff-the original and fundamental error. He was the one who ordered that Dreyfus should be held in solitary confinement for weeks in order to break him. And he was the one who ordered the compilation of the secret dossier."

"I'll challenge him on those three points." Labori is making rapid notes. "But we're not saying that he knew all along that Dreyfus was innocent?"

"Not at the very beginning. But when Dreyfus refused to confess, and they realised that the only thing they had against him was the handwriting of the bordereau-that was when they started to panic, in my view, and to fabricate the evidence."

"And you think Mercier knew of this?"

"Definitely."

"How?"

"Because at the beginning of November, the Foreign Ministry broke an Italian cipher telegram that showed that Panizzardi had never even heard of Dreyfus."

Labori, still writing, raises his eyebrows. "And this was shown to Mercier?"

"Yes. The decrypt was handed to him personally."

Labori stops writing and sits back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his notebook. "So he must have been aware more than a month before the court-martial that the 'lowlife D' letter couldn't refer to Dreyfus?" I nod. "Yet he went ahead anyway and showed it to the judges, along with a commentary pointing out its importance in proving Dreyfus's guilt?"

"And he was still maintaining the same position yesterday. The man is quite shameless."

"So what did the Statistical Section do with the Italian telegram? Presumably they simply ignored it?"

"No, worse: they destroyed the original War Ministry copy and subst.i.tuted a false version which implied the opposite-that Panizzardi knew all about Dreyfus."

"And Mercier is ultimately responsible for this?"

"That is my belief, after months of thinking about it. There are plenty of others with dirty hands-Sandherr, Gonse, Henry-but Mercier was the driving force. He was the one who should have halted the proceedings against Dreyfus the moment he saw that telegram. But he knew it would do him terrible damage politically, whereas if he brought off a successful prosecution he might just ride it all the way to the elysee. It was a stupid delusion, but then he's fundamentally a dim man."

Labori resumes writing. "And what about this other doc.u.ment from the secret file he quoted yesterday-the report by the Srete officer, Guenee-can I tackle him on that?"

"It was falsified, without a doubt. Guenee claimed to have been told by the Spanish military attache, the marquis de Val Carlos, that the Germans had a spy in the intelligence section. Henry swore Val Carlos told him the same story three months later and he used it against Dreyfus at the original court-martial. But look at the language: it's all wrong. I raised it with Guenee soon after I discovered it. I never saw a man look so shifty."

"Should we summon Val Carlos as a witness? Ask him to confirm if he ever said it?"

"You could try, although I'm sure he'd plead diplomatic immunity. Why don't you call Guenee?"

"Guenee died five weeks ago."

I look at him in surprise. "Died of what?"

"Of 'cerebral congestion,' according to the medical certificate, whatever that may be." Labori shakes his large head. "Sandherr, Henry, Lemercier-Picard and Guenee-that secret file turned out to be a blood pact."

I rise at five on Monday morning, shave and dress carefully. My gun lies on the nightstand beside my bed. I pick it up, weigh it in my hand, ponder it, then put it away in the chest of drawers.

A gentle knock at my door; Edmond's voice: "Georges, are you ready?"

As well as lunch and dinner, Edmond and I have also taken to having breakfast at Les Trois Marches. We eat omelettes and baguettes in the small parlour. Across the road, the shutters of Mercier's house remain tightly shut. A gendarme wanders up and down outside it, yawning.

At a quarter to six, we begin to descend the hill. The sky is filled with rain clouds for the first time; their greyness matches the stone buildings of the quiet town; the air is cooler, gla.s.sy. Shortly before we reach the ca.n.a.l there comes from behind us a shout of "Good morning, gentlemen!" and I turn and see Labori hurrying to catch us up. He is wearing a dark suit and a straw boater and swinging a large black briefcase.

"We shall have some amus.e.m.e.nt today, I think."

He seems in an excellent mood, like a sportsman eager to get into the arena. He joins us and walks between us, I to his right and Edmond to his left, along the wide dirt path beside the ca.n.a.l. He asks me some last-minute detail about Mercier-"Was Boisdeffre present in the room when the Minister ordered Sandherr to disperse the secret file?"-and I am on the point of replying when I hear a noise at our backs. I suspect an eavesdropper and half turn.

Someone is there all right-a big, youngish fellow, red hair, black jacket, white cap-with a revolver pointing from his hand. There is a tremendous bang that sends the ducks scattering across the water, crying in alarm. Labori says in mystification, "Oh, oh, oh ..." and drops to one knee, as if winded. I put out my hand as he topples forward on his face, his briefcase still in his hand.

My first instinct is to kneel and try to support him. He sounds more puzzled than in pain: "Oh, oh ..." There is a hole in his jacket almost in the dead centre of his back. I look round to see the a.s.sa.s.sin about a hundred metres away, running away along the side of the ca.n.a.l. A different instinct-a soldier's instinct-kicks in.

I say to Edmond, "Stay here."

I set off in pursuit of the gunman. After a few seconds I am aware of Edmond running behind me. He shouts, "Georges, be careful!"

I yell over my shoulder, "Go back to Labori!" and lengthen my stride, pumping my arms.

Edmond runs for a little longer then gives up the chase. I put my head down, forcing myself to go faster. I am gaining on my quarry. Exactly what I will do if I get my hands on him, given that he presumably has five bullets left and I am unarmed, I am not sure: I will deal with that situation when it arises. In the meantime, there are bargemen up ahead and I shout out to them to grab the a.s.sa.s.sin. They look to see what is happening, drop their ropes and block his path.

I am close now-twenty metres perhaps-close enough to see him point his gun at them and hear him scream, "Get out of my way! I've just killed Dreyfus!"

Whether it's the gun or the boast, it does the trick. They stand aside and he runs on, and when I race past them, I have to hurdle a foot that is stuck out to trip me over.

Abruptly the houses and the factories fall away and we are into open Breton country. Beyond the ca.n.a.l to my right I can see the railway line and a train steaming into the station; to my left are fields with cows and distant woodland. The gunman suddenly leaves the towpath, darts off to the left and heads towards the trees. A year ago I would have caught him. But all those months in prison have done for me. I am out of breath, have cramp, my heart feels strange. I leap a ditch and land badly, and by the time I reach the edge of the wood he has had plenty of time to conceal himself. I find a stout stick and crash around in the undergrowth for half an hour, slashing at the ferns, startling pheasants, conscious all the while that I might be in his sights, until at last the silence of the trees defeats me and I make my way, limping, back to the ca.n.a.l.

I have to walk back more than three kilometres and so I miss the immediate aftermath of the shooting. Edmond describes it all for me later: how, when he returned to Labori, the great advocate had somehow managed to drag his body on top of his briefcase in order to deter various individuals who had recognised him and were trying to steal his notes; how Marguerite Labori had rushed to the scene wearing a black and white summer dress, and had cradled her husband in her lap, trying to keep him cool with the aid of a small j.a.panese fan; how he had lain on his side with his arm around her, talking calmly, but scarcely shedding blood-an ominous sign as it often suggests the bleeding is internal; how a shutter had been fetched and four soldiers had heaved Labori onto it and carried the giant with difficulty back to his lodgings; how the doctor had examined him and announced that the bullet was lodged between the fifth and sixth ribs, millimetres from his spine, and the situation was grave-the patient was unable to move his leg; how Labori's fellow advocate, Demange, had hurried over from the courtroom along with his a.s.sistants to find out what was happening; how Labori had grasped his colleague's hand and said, "Old chap, I'm going to die perhaps, but Dreyfus is safe"; and how everyone had remarked on the way that Dreyfus in court had received the news of his lawyer's shooting without the slightest change in his facial expression.

By the time I get back, which must be nearly an hour after the attack, the scene of the a.s.sault is oddly deserted, as if nothing has happened. At Labori's lodgings his landlady tells me he has been taken to the house of Victor Basch, a Dreyfusard professor at the local university, who lives in the rue d'Antrain, the same street as Les Trois Marches. I walk up the hill to find a group of journalists in the road outside and a pair of gendarmes guarding the door. Inside, Labori has been laid out, unconscious by now, on a mattress in a downstairs room, and Marguerite is beside him, holding his hand. His face is deathly white. The doctor has summoned a surgeon, who has not yet arrived; his own interim opinion is that it is too dangerous to operate and that the bullet is best left where it is: the next twenty-four hours will be crucial in showing the extent of the damage.

There is a police inspector in the front parlour, questioning Edmond. I give him my description of the attacker, the chase and the location of the wood into which he ran. "Cesson Forest," says the inspector. "I'll have it searched," and he goes out into the hall to speak to one of his men.

While he is out of the room, Edmond says, "Are you all right?"

"Disgusted at my physical fitness; otherwise fine." I pound the arm of my chair in frustration. "If only I had been carrying my gun-I'd have brought him down easily."

"Was it Labori he was after, or you?"

I hadn't thought of that. "Oh, Labori-I'm sure of it. They must have been desperate to stop him cross-examining Mercier. We'll need to find a replacement for him when the trial resumes."

Edmond looks stricken. "My G.o.d, didn't you hear? Jouaust would only agree to an adjournment of forty-five minutes. Demange has had to go back to examine Mercier."

"But Demange isn't prepared! He doesn't know the questions to ask!"

It is a disaster. I hurry out of the house, past the journalists, down the slope towards the lycee. It is starting to rain. Huge, warm drops explode on the street stones, filling the air with a fragrance of moist dust. Several of the reporters set off after me. They trot alongside asking questions and somehow managing to write down my answers.

"So the a.s.sa.s.sin is still at large?"

"As far as I know."

"Do you think he'll be caught?"

"He could be-whether he will be is another question."

"Do you think the army is behind it?"

"I hope not."

"You don't rule it out?"

"Let me put it this way: I think it curious that in a town filled with five thousand police and soldiers, an a.s.sa.s.sin is able to gun down Dreyfus's advocate and melt away without apparent difficulty."

That is what they want to hear. At the entrance to the lycee they peel away and run off in the direction of the Bourse de Commerce to telegraph their stories.

Inside, Mercier is on the stand and I realise within a minute of taking my seat that Demange is making heavy work of questioning him. Demange is a decent, civilised man of nearly sixty with bloodhound eyes, who has faithfully represented his client for almost half a decade. But he isn't prepared for this session, and even if he were, he lacks Labori's forensic menace. He is, to put it bluntly, a windbag. His habit is to preface every question with a speech, giving Mercier plenty of time to think of his answer. Mercier brushes him aside with ease. Asked about the falsified Panizzardi telegram in the Ministry of War archive, he denies all knowledge of it; asked why he didn't place the telegram in the secret dossier and show it to the judges, he says it is because the Foreign Ministry wouldn't have liked it. After a few more minutes of this he is allowed to step down. As he walks back up the aisle, his glance flickers in my direction. He stops and bends down to speak to me, holds out his hand. He knows the entire courtroom is watching us. He says, with great solicitation, loud enough for half the audience to hear, "Monsieur Picquart, this is the most appalling news. How is Matre Labori's condition?"

"The bullet is still inside him, General. We will know better tomorrow."

"It is a profoundly shocking incident. Will you be sure to give Madame Labori my best wishes for her husband's recovery?"

"Certainly, General."

His strange sea-green eyes hold mine, and for a fractional instant I glimpse the shadow, like a fin in the water, of his dull malevolence, and then he nods and moves away.

-- The following day is the Feast of the a.s.sumption, a public holiday, and the court does not sit. Labori survives the night. His fever diminishes. There are hopes of a recovery. On Wednesday, Demange rises in court and pleads for an adjournment of two weeks, until either Labori is well enough to resume work or a new advocate can be fully briefed: Albert Clemenceau has agreed to take on the case. Jouaust turns the request down flat: the circ.u.mstances are unfortunate but the defence will have to get by as best it can.

The first part of the morning's session is devoted to the details of Dreyfus's confinement on Devil's Island, and as the terrible harshness of the regime is described, even the prosecution witnesses-even Boisdeffre, even Gonse-have the decency to look embarra.s.sed at the catalogue of torments inflicted in the name of justice. But when, at the end, Jouaust asks the accused if he has any comment to make, Dreyfus merely responds stiffy, "I am here to defend my honour and that of my children. I shall say nothing of the tortures I have been made to undergo." He prefers the army's hatred to its pity. What seems to be coldness, I realise, is partly a determination not to be a victim; I respect him for it.

On Thursday, I am called to give evidence.

I walk to the front of the court, and climb the two steps to the raised platform, conscious of the silence that has fallen behind me in the crowded court. I feel no nervousness, just a desire to get it done. Before me is a railing with a shelf, on which witnesses can place their notes or military caps; beyond that the stage and the row of judges-two colonels, three majors and two captains-and to my left, sitting barely two metres away, Dreyfus. How curious it is to stand there close enough to shake his hand, and yet not to be able to speak to him! I try to forget his presence as I stare firmly ahead and swear to tell the complete truth.

Jouaust begins, "Did you know the accused before the events for which he is charged?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"How did you know him?"

"I was a professor at the ecole Superieure de Guerre when Dreyfus was a pupil."

"Your relations went no further than that?"