An Officer and a Spy

have it searched,’ and he goes out into the hall to speak to one of his men.
    While he is out of the room, Edmond says, ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Disgusted at my physical fitness; otherwise fine.’ I pound the arm of my chair in frustration. ‘If only I had been carrying my gun – I’d have brought him down easily.’
    ‘Was it Labori he was after, or you?’
    I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Oh, Labori – I’m sure of it. They must have been desperate to stop him cross-examining Mercier. We’ll need to find a replacement for him when the trial resumes.’
    Edmond looks stricken. ‘My God, didn’t you hear? Jouaust would only agree to an adjournment of forty-five minutes. Demange has had to go back to examine Mercier.’
    ‘But Demange isn’t prepared! He doesn’t know the questions to ask!’
    It is a disaster. I hurry out of the house, past the journalists, down the slope towards the lycée. It is starting to rain. Huge, warm drops explode on the street stones, filling the air with a fragrance of moist dust. Several of the reporters set off after me. They trot alongside asking questions and somehow managing to write down my answers.
    ‘So the assassin is still at large?’
    ‘As far as I know.’
    ‘Do you think he’ll be caught?’
    ‘He could be – whether he will be is another question.’
    ‘Do you think the army is behind it?’
    ‘I hope not.’
    ‘You don’t rule it out?’
    ‘Let me put it this way: I think it curious that in a town filled with five thousand police and soldiers, an assassin is able to gun down Dreyfus’s advocate and melt away without apparent difficulty.’
    That is what they want to hear. At the entrance to the lycée they peel away and run off in the direction of the Bourse de Commerce to telegraph their stories.
    Inside, Mercier is on the stand and I realise within a minute of taking my seat that Demange is making heavy work of questioning him. Demange is a decent, civilised man of nearly sixty with bloodhound eyes, who has faithfully represented his client for almost half a decade. But he isn’t prepared for this session, and even if he were, he lacks Labori’s forensic menace. He is, to put it bluntly, a windbag. His habit is to preface every question with a speech, giving Mercier plenty of time to think of his answer. Mercier brushes him aside with ease. Asked about the falsified Panizzardi telegram in the Ministry of War archive, he denies all knowledge of it; asked why he didn’t place the telegram in the secret dossier and show it to the judges, he says it is because the Foreign Ministry wouldn’t have liked it. After a few more minutes of this he is allowed to step down. As he walks back up the aisle, his glance flickers in my direction. He stops and bends down to speak to me, holds out his hand. He knows the entire courtroom is watching us. He says, with great solicitation, loud enough for half the audience to hear, ‘Monsieur Picquart, this is the most appalling news. How is Maître Labori’s condition?’
    ‘The bullet is still inside him, General. We will know better tomorrow.’
    ‘It is a profoundly shocking incident. Will you be sure to give Madame Labori my best wishes for her husband’s recovery?’
    ‘Certainly, General.’
    His strange sea-green eyes hold mine, and for a fractional instant I glimpse the shadow, like a fin in the water, of his dull malevolence, and then he nods and moves away.
    The following day is the Feast of the Assumption, a public holiday, and the court does not sit. Labori survives the night. His fever diminishes. There are hopes of a recovery. On Wednesday, Demange rises in court and pleads for an adjournment of two weeks, until either Labori is well enough to resume work or a new advocate can be fully briefed: Albert Clemenceau has agreed to take on the case. Jouaust turns the request down flat: the circumstances are unfortunate but the defence will have to get by as best it can.
    The first part of the morning’s session is devoted to the details of Dreyfus’s confinement on Devil’s Island, and as the terrible harshness of the regime is described, even the prosecution witnesses – even Boisdeffre, even Gonse – have the decency to look embarrassed at the catalogue of torments inflicted in the name of justice. But when, at the end, Jouaust asks the accused if he has any comment to make, Dreyfus merely responds stiffy, ‘I am here to defend my honour and that of my children. I shall say nothing of the