An Officer and a Spy

explaining his actions, first to the Minister of War, and then, in what must have been an exquisitely embarrassing interview, to President Casimir-Perier himself.
    ‘There is nothing at all funny about this, Major!’ Gonse has detected my amusement. ‘We are in no condition to fight a war against Germany! If they were to decide to use this as a pretext to attack us, then God help France!’
    ‘Of course, General.’ Gonse is part of that generation – Mercier and Boisdeffre are of it too – who were scarred as young officers by the rout of 1870 and have been frightened of the Germans’ shadow ever since. ‘Three-to-two’ is their mantra of pessimism: there are three Germans to every two Frenchmen; they spend three francs on armaments to every two that we can afford. I rather despise them for their defeatism. ‘How has Berlin reacted?’
    ‘Some form of words is being negotiated in the Foreign Ministry to the effect that the Germans are no more responsible for the documents that get sent to them than we are for the ones that come to us.’
    ‘They have a nerve!’
    ‘Not really. They’re just providing cover for their agent. We’d do the same. But it’s been touch and go all day, I can tell you.’
    The more I think of it, the more amazing it seems. ‘They’d really break off diplomatic relations and risk a war just to protect one spy?’
    ‘Well, of course, they’re embarrassed at being caught out. It’s humiliating for them. Typical damned Prussian overreaction . . .’
    His hand is shaking. He lights a fresh cigarette from his old one and drops the stub into the sawn-off cap of a shell case which serves as his ashtray. He picks a few shreds of tobacco from his tongue then settles back in his couch and regards me through the cloud of smoke. ‘You haven’t touched your drink, I see.’
    ‘I prefer to keep a clear head when talk turns to war.’
    ‘Ah! That’s exactly when I find I need one!’ He drains his glass and toys with it. He smiles at me. I can tell he’s desperate for another by the way he glances over at the decanter, but he doesn’t want to look like a drunk in front of me. He clears his throat and says: ‘The minister has been impressed by you, Picquart; by your conduct throughout this whole affair. So has the Chief of Staff. You’ve obviously gained valuable experience of secret intelligence over the past three months. So we have it in mind to recommend you for promotion. We’re thinking of offering you command of the Statistical Section.’
    I try to hide my dismay. Espionage is grubby work. Everything I have seen of the Dreyfus case has reinforced that view. It isn’t what I joined the army to do. ‘But surely,’ I object, ‘the section already has a very able commander in Colonel Sandherr?’
    ‘He is able. But Sandherr is a sick man, and between you and me he isn’t likely to recover. Also, he’s been in the post ten years; he needs a rest. Now, Picquart, forgive me, but I have to ask you this, given the nature of the secret information you’d be handling – there isn’t anything in your past or private life that could leave you open to blackmail, is there?’
    With gathering dismay I realise my fate has already been decided, perhaps the previous afternoon when Gonse met Mercier and Boisdeffre. ‘No,’ I say, ‘not that I’m aware of.’
    ‘You’re not married, I believe?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Any particular reason for that?’
    ‘I like my own company. And I can’t afford a wife.’
    ‘That’s all?’
    ‘That’s all.’
    ‘Any money worries?’
    ‘No money.’ I shrug. ‘No worries.’
    ‘Good.’ Gonse looks relieved. ‘Then it’s settled.’
    But still I struggle against my destiny. ‘You realise the existing staff won’t like an outsider coming in – what about Colonel Sandherr’s deputy?’
    ‘He’s retiring.’
    ‘Or Major Henry?’
    ‘Oh, Henry’s a good soldier. He’ll soon knuckle down and do what’s best for the section.’
    ‘Doesn’t he want the job himself?’
    ‘He does, but he lacks the education, and the social polish for such a senior position. His wife’s father keeps an inn, I believe.’
    ‘But I know nothing about spying—’
    ‘Come now, my dear Picquart!’ Gonse is starting to become irritated. ‘You have exactly the qualities for the post. Where’s the problem? It’s true the unit doesn’t exist officially. There’ll be no parades or stories in the newspapers. You won’t be able to tell anyone