An Officer and a Spy

people; and there to my left is Esterhazy, lounging back more or less as I remember him on the only other occasion I saw him, with his feet stretched out and his arms hanging loosely at his sides, as relaxed as if he were still in the nightclub in Rouen. I have time only for a sidelong glance, but I am struck again by the singularity of his appearance. The bald, oddly delicate round head cranes up to look at me; a glittering eye, like a falcon’s, focuses on me for an instant and then flickers away. He appears bored.
    Luxer says, ‘State your name.’
    ‘Marie-Georges Picquart.’
    ‘Place of birth?’
    ‘Strasbourg.’
    ‘Age?’
    ‘Forty-three.’
    ‘When did the defendant first come to your attention?’
    ‘About nine months after I was appointed chief of the secret intelligence section of the General Staff . . .’
    In all, I testify for perhaps four hours – an hour or so in the darkness of that late January afternoon and three hours the following morning. Pointless to relate it all: it is Pellieux redux. Indeed, Pellieux himself, in defiance of all the rules of procedure, seems to be in control of the court martial. He leans forward to whisper advice to the president of the judges. He asks me hectoring questions. And whenever I try to bring up the names of Mercier, Boisdeffre and Billot, he interrupts me and orders me to be silent: ‘These distinguished officers have no relevance whatever to the case of Major Esterhazy!’ His methods are so heavy-handed that halfway through the Tuesday morning session one of the judges asks the president of the court to intervene: ‘I see that Colonel Picquart is the true defendant here. I request that he be permitted to present all the explanations necessary to his defence.’
    Pellieux scowls and briefly falls silent, but Esterhazy’s slippery young advocate, Maurice Tézenas, quickly takes over the attack: ‘Colonel Picquart, you have sought from the beginning to substitute my client for Dreyfus.’
    ‘That is not true.’
    ‘You forged the petit bleu .’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You conspired with your attorney, Maître Leblois, to blacken my client’s name.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You showed him the secret file relating to the conviction of Dreyfus as part of a plot to undermine public confidence in the original verdict.’
    ‘I did not.’
    ‘Come now, Colonel – several witnesses yesterday testified to this very court that they saw you do it!’
    ‘That is impossible. What witnesses?’
    ‘Colonel Henry, Major Lauth and Monsieur Gribelin.’
    I glance across the room to where they sit, impassive. ‘Well, they are mistaken.’
    Tézenas says, ‘I request that these officers step forward and confront this witness.’
    ‘Gentlemen, if you please.’ Luxer beckons to them to approach the bench. Esterhazy watches with an air of utter indifference, as if he is attending a particularly tedious play, the ending of which he already knows. Luxer says, ‘Colonel Henry, is there any doubt in your mind that you saw Colonel Picquart show documents from the so-called secret dossier to Maître Leblois?’
    ‘No, General. I went into his office late one afternoon about a departmental matter and he had the file on his desk. I recognised it at once because it has the initial letter “D” on it, which I wrote there myself. The colonel had it open and was showing a particular document, containing the words “that lowlife D”, to his friend Monsieur Leblois. I saw it all, as plain as I see you now, General.’
    I look at him in amazement: how is it possible to lie so brazenly? He stares back at me, entirely unfazed.
    You order me to shoot a man and I’ll shoot him . . .
    Luxer continues: ‘And so your testimony, Colonel Henry, is that you then went away and immediately described what you had seen to Major Lauth and Monsieur Gribelin?’
    ‘I did. I was profoundly shocked by the whole thing.’
    ‘And the two of you both still swear this conversation took place?’
    Lauth says fervently, ‘Yes, General.’
    ‘Absolutely, General,’ confirms Gribelin. He darts a glance at me. ‘I might add that I, too, saw Colonel Picquart show the file to his friend.’
    They have come to hate me, I realise, far more than they ever hated Dreyfus. I maintain my composure. ‘May I ask, Monsieur President, if Maître Leblois could come and give his opinion of this?’
    Tézenas says, ‘I’m afraid, Monsieur President, that Maître Leblois is in Strasbourg.’
    ‘No,’ I say.