An Officer and a Spy

is what the army of France has sunk to. Either they are the greatest fools in Europe or the greatest villains: for the sake of my country I am not sure which is worse. But some instinct for self-preservation warns me not to fight them now; I must play dead.
    I bow my head slightly. ‘If you are satisfied that it is authentic, then naturally I accept that it must be.’
    Billot says, ‘Therefore you also must accept that Dreyfus is guilty?’
    ‘If the document is authentic, then yes – he must be.’
    There. It is done. I do not know what else I could have said at that moment that would have made any difference to Dreyfus’s plight.
    Billot says, ‘In view of your previous record, Colonel, we are willing to suspend taking legal action against you, at least for the time being. We do, however, expect you to turn over all documents connected with the investigation of Major Esterhazy, including the petit bleu , to Major Henry. And you will proceed immediately to the depot at Châlons to begin your tour of inspection with the 6th and 7th Corps.’
    Gonse is smiling again. ‘I’ll take all your office keys now, my dear Picquart, if I may. There’s no need for you to return to the section. Major Henry can take over the day-to-day running. You go straight home and pack.’
    I fill a suitcase with enough clothes for three or four days. I ask the concierge to forward my mail to the Ministry of War. Then I just have sufficient time before my train leaves at seven to call on a few people to say goodbye.
    Pauline is in the family’s apartment on the rue de la Pompe, supervising tea for the girls. She looks alarmed to see me. ‘Philippe will be back from the office any minute,’ she whispers, half closing the door behind her.
    ‘Don’t worry, I’m not coming in.’ I stand on the landing with my suitcase beside me and tell her that I’m going away.
    ‘For how long?’
    ‘It should only be for a week or so, but if it turns out to be longer and you need to make contact, write to me care of the ministry – only be careful what you say.’
    ‘Why? Is something the matter?’
    ‘No, but precautions are always wise.’ I kiss her hand and press it to my cheek.
    ‘Maman!’ shrills a voice behind her.
    ‘You’d better go,’ I say.
    I take a cab to the boulevard Saint-Germain and ask the driver to wait. By now it is dark and the lights of the great house are bright in the November gloom; there is an atmosphere of activity: Blanche will be holding one of her musical soirées later in the evening. ‘Stranger!’ she greets me. ‘You’re far too early.’
    ‘I won’t come in,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid I have to leave Paris for a few days.’ I repeat the instructions I’ve just given Pauline: if she needs to get in touch she should do so via the ministry, but she should try to be discreet. ‘Give my love to Aimery and Mathilde.’
    ‘Oh, Georges!’ she cries in delight, pinching my cheek and kissing the tip of my nose. ‘You are a mystery!’
    When I climb back into my cab, I see her in the downstairs window, showing the musicians where to set up. I retain one final impression of chandeliers and a profusion of indoor plants, of Louis XIV chairs covered in rose-pale silk and of light gleaming on the polished spruce and maple of the instruments. Blanche is smiling at one of the violinists, pointing out where he should sit. The cabman flicks his whip and this vision of civilisation jerks out of sight.
    My final call is on Louis Leblois. Again the driver waits; again I do not go in but stay on the landing to say my goodbyes. He has only just returned from court. He sees my anguish immediately.
    ‘I suppose you can’t talk about it?’
    ‘I fear not.’
    ‘I’m here if you need me.’
    As I get back into the cab, I glance along the rue de l’Université to the offices of the Statistical Section. The building is a patch of gloom even in the darkness. I notice that a taxi has parked about twenty paces behind us with the yellow light of the Poissonnière-Montmartre depot. It pulls away as we do, and when we arrive at the gare de l’Est, it stops a discreet distance away. I guess I must have been followed ever since I left my apartment. They aren’t taking any chances.
    On a Morris column outside the station, amid the adverts and the multicoloured playbills of the Opéra-Comique and the Comédie-Française, is a poster showing the facsimile of the bordereau from Le Matin beside a sample of Dreyfus’s