An Officer and a Spy

says, ‘I must say, I feel sorry for this fellow Esterhazy.’ Then a third, the captain who lusted after Savignaud, chimes in: ‘You see here it says that Esterhazy has written to General Billot? “I have read in this morning’s papers the infamous accusation brought against me. I ask you to order an inquiry, and I am ready to reply to all the charges.”’ ‘Good for him,’ rejoins the first, ‘but what chance does he stand against all that Jewish gold?’ The captain: ‘That’s true enough – perhaps we should raise a subscription for poor old Esterhazy? Put me down for twenty francs.’
    The following day I go for a long ride along the coast to clear my head. Far out to sea, immense clouds are rolling north, trailing funeral draperies of rain. It is the start of the wettest season. I spur my mount and gallop towards the thousand-year-old watchtower of the Ribat in Monastir, a distance of perhaps fifteen kilometres. As I come closer, it stands out pale against the darkening sea. I consider riding into the little fishing port. But the sky is now as black as squid’s ink, and sure enough, as I turn for home the cloud overhead splits like a slashed sac and a drenching cold rain begins to fall.
    When I reach the base I go straight to my quarters to change. The door, which I had made sure to lock, is open and I enter to find Jemel standing guiltily in the middle of my sitting room. A few seconds earlier and I would have caught him mid search, but now I look around and can see nothing out of place.
    I say curtly, ‘Fetch me some water; I need a bath.’
    ‘Yes, Colonel.’
    By the time I reach the Military Club I am too late for lunch, and I can tell from the instant I enter that something momentous has happened. Conversations cease as I walk towards my normal place. Several of the older officers quickly finish their drinks and leave. Today’s Dépêche has been placed carefully, pointedly, on my armchair, folded to a story on the front page.
ESTERHAZY ACCUSES COLONEL PICQUART. Paris, 10h 35m. In an interview in Le Matin , Esterhazy says: ‘Everything that has happened is the responsibility of Colonel Picquart. He is a friend of the Dreyfus family. He opened an investigation against me fifteen months ago when he was in the Ministry of War. He wanted to destroy me. M. Scheurer-Kestner has been given all his information by Picquart’s lawyer, Maître Leblois, who went to the colonel’s office and was shown secret files. The colonel’s behaviour was considered so appalling by his superiors he was sent in disgrace to Tunisia.’
    I have never before had my name printed in a newspaper. I picture all the people I know, my friends and family in France, coming upon it unawares. What will they think? I am supposed to be a spy, a man in the shadows. Now a searchlight has picked me out.
    And there is more:
CHEZ MAÎTRE LEBLOIS. According to Le Matin: ‘At midnight, after our interview with Major Esterhazy, we go to the door of Maître Leblois, advocate of the court of appeal – 96, rue de l’Université – but the door is closed. We ring again. The door doesn’t open. But from the interior comes a voice: “Who’s there? What do you want?” We explain the reason for our visit: that Major Esterhazy has formally alleged that he, Maître Leblois, provided the dossier to M. Scheurer-Kestner based on documents furnished by Colonel Picquart. The voice becomes more menacing: “What can I tell you? I am bound by a professional vow of silence. I have nothing to say, absolutely nothing. But I recommend you do not name Colonel Picquart. Now, good night and don’t come back!”’
    By the time I finish reading and look round, the clubroom is empty.
    That evening I receive another telegram: I find it pushed under my door. But this one is quite unambiguous: Evacuate your quarters in Sousse immediately on assumption you will not be returning and report to me at General Headquarters. Signed Leclerc.
    In Tunis I am given a small room on the second floor of the main barracks. I lie on the bed and listen to the symphony of male institutional life – the shouts and sudden bursts of whistling, the clanging of doors and heavy footsteps. I think about Pauline. She has gone very quiet over the last few weeks. I wonder what she will have made of the references to me in the press – that I am in the pay of the Jews; that I was shipped off to Tunisia ‘in disgrace’. I write her a letter.
Tunis
20 November 1897
Ma