An Officer and a Spy

which was the last time he was seen alive – and again six hours later, when a lieutenant and an orderly enter the room and find him still lying on the same bed saturated in blood, his body already cold and stiff, his throat slit twice with a razor, which (an odd detail, this) is clenched in his left hand even though he is right-handed.
    But between these two scenes, between noon and six – between Henry alive and Henry dead – my imagination fails me. Labori believes he was murdered, like Lemercier-Picard, to keep him quiet, and that his killing was staged to look like a suicide. He cites medical friends of his who state that it is physically impossible for a person to sever their carotid artery on both sides. But I am not convinced that murder would have been necessary, not with Henry. He would have known what was expected of him after Boisdeffre and Gonse both failed to raise their voices in his defence.
    You order me to shoot a man and I’ll shoot him.
    That afternoon, at the same time as Henry’s lifeblood is flowing out of him, Boisdeffre is writing to the Minister of War:
Minister,
I have just received proof that my trust in Colonel Henry, head of the intelligence service, was not justified. That trust, which was total, led me to be deceived and to declare authentic a document that was not, and to present it to you as such.
In these circumstances, I have the honour of asking you to relieve me of my duties.
Boisdeffre
    He retires at once to Normandy.
    Three days later Cavaignac also resigns, albeit defiantly (I remain convinced of the guilt of Dreyfus and as resolute as ever to fight against a revision of the trial) ; Pellieux submits his resignation; Gonse is transferred out of the Ministry of War and goes back to his regiment on half-pay.
    I assume, like most people, that it is all over: that if Henry could have arranged the forging of one document, it will be accepted that he could have done it many times, and that the case against Dreyfus has collapsed.
    But the days pass, Dreyfus stays on Devil’s Island and I remain in La Santé. And gradually it becomes apparent that even now the army will not acknowledge its mistake. I am refused parole. Instead I receive a notification that I will stand trial with Louis in three weeks’ time in an ordinary criminal court for illegally transmitting secret documents.
    On the eve of the hearing Labori visits me in prison. Normally he is ebullient, even aggressive; today he looks worried. ‘I have some bad news, I’m afraid. The army are bringing fresh charges against you.’
    ‘What now?’
    ‘Forgery.’
    ‘They’re accusing me of forgery?’
    ‘Yes, of the petit bleu .’
    I can only laugh. ‘You have to credit them with a sense of humour.’
    But Labori refuses to join in. ‘They will argue that a military investigation into forgery takes precedence over a civil proceeding. It’s a tactic to get you into army custody. My guess is the judge will agree.’
    ‘Well,’ I shrug, ‘I suppose one prison is much like another.’
    ‘That’s precisely where you’re wrong, my friend. The regime at Cherche-Midi is much harsher than here. And I don’t like the thought of you in the clutches of the army – who can tell what accidents might befall you?’
    The next day when I am taken into the criminal court of the Seine I ask the judge if I can make a statement. The courtroom is small and jammed with journalists – not just French, but international: I can even see the bald dome and massive side-whiskers of the most famous foreign correspondent in the world, Monsieur de Blowitz of the London Times . It is to the reporters that I address my remarks.
    ‘This evening,’ I say, ‘I may well be taken to Cherche-Midi, so this is probably the last time that I can speak in public before the secret investigation. I want it to be known that if Lemercier-Picard’s shoelaces or Henry’s razor are ever found in my cell, it will be murder, for never would a man such as I, even for one instant, contemplate suicide. I shall face this accusation, my head held high, and with the same serenity that I have always shown before my accusers.’
    To my surprise there is loud applause from the reporters, and I am escorted out of the chamber to shouts of ‘ Vive Picquart! ’ ‘ Vive la verité!’ ‘ Vive la justice! ’
    Labori’s prediction is correct: the army wins the right to deal with me first, and the following day I am taken to Cherche-Midi – to be locked, I am