An Officer and a Spy

chérie,
What with all my comings and goings between Sousse and here, I receive mail very irregularly. Perhaps there are other causes for this. Anyway, it’s boring and sad not to hear from you. Don’t be afraid to write to me even if it’s only two words. I’m fine, but I have to make sure your life is not compromised. Poor little girl – here I am for the first time with my life laid out in the papers! I have the disadvantage that I am attacked without having the right or the will to defend myself through the same medium. Finally all this will end. I shall write no more now, but I hold you in my heart with all my love.
    I set down my pen and read the letter through. It seems to me very stilted. But then how inhibiting it is to know that one’s love letters will by steamed open and read by men in offices, and copied and placed on file.
PS I am very calm and will not be hurt. You see that grave circumstances cannot scare me. The only thing that concerns me is your emotion while reading this.
    I don’t sign it or write her name on the envelope, and I pay a soldier a franc to post it for me.
    Leclerc receives me in his office at the end of the day. His garden is in darkness. He looks weary. He has a stack of telegrams on one side of his desk and a pile of newspapers on the other. He invites me to sit. ‘I have a list of questions I have been instructed to ask you, Colonel, sent to me by the Minister of War. Such as: have you ever given any secret information to a person or persons outside the army?’
    ‘No, General.’
    He makes a note.
    ‘Have you ever forged or otherwise altered any confidential documents?’
    ‘No, General.’
    ‘Have you ever asked a subordinate, or subordinates, to forge or alter confidential documents?’
    ‘No, General.’
    ‘Have you ever allowed a woman access to secret documents?’
    ‘A woman?’
    ‘Yes. Apparently this Major Esterhazy has claimed he was passed secret information by an unknown woman wearing a veil.’
    A veiled lady! Another du Paty touch . . .
    ‘No, General, I have not shown documents to a woman, veiled or unveiled.’
    ‘Good. I shall telegraph Paris accordingly. In the meantime I am to inform you that the Minister of War has ordered an internal inquiry into this whole affair, under General de Pellieux, Military Commander of the Département of the Seine. You are instructed to return to France to give evidence. An official from the Colonial Ministry will escort you.’ He closes the file. ‘And that, I think, concludes our business together, Colonel.’
    He stands. I follow suit.
    He says, ‘I wouldn’t describe it as having been a pleasure exactly to have you under my command, but it has certainly been interesting.’ We shake hands. He puts his arm around my shoulders and escorts me to the door. He smells strongly of eau de cologne. ‘I was talking to Colonel Dubuch the other night. He says this Esterhazy character is a thoroughly bad lot. He was out here in ’82 and was charged with embezzlement in Sfax. There was a board of inquiry, but somehow he got off.’
    ‘It doesn’t surprise me, General.’
    ‘You must be up against some pretty desperate opposition, Picquart, if they’re willing to tie themselves to a character like that. May I give you some advice?’
    ‘Please.’
    ‘Don’t stand too close to the railings on the ship back to France.’

18
    THE PASSAGE ACROSS the Mediterranean in November is much rougher than in June. One moment the porthole shows grey sky, the next grey waves. My Russian books slide off my little table and splay out on the floor. As before, I keep mostly to my cabin. Occasionally I am visited by my escort, Monsieur Périer of the Colonial Ministry, but he is very green and prefers to keep to his own quarters. On my rare excursions above decks I follow Leclerc’s advice and keep well away from the edge. I enjoy the lash of the sea across my face, the smell of the coal smoke mingled with the salt spray. Occasionally I am aware of some of the other passengers staring at me, but I am not sure whether they are police agents, or have merely heard that a person whose name is in the news is aboard.
    We leave Africa on the Tuesday. On the Thursday afternoon the coast of France comes into view – a watery line in the mist. I have just finished packing when someone knocks on my door. I pick up my revolver and call out, ‘Who’s there?’
    A voice replies, ‘It’s the captain, Colonel Picquart.’
    ‘Just a