An Officer and a Spy

but Mathieu and Demange don’t come. We drink a final toast to victory, raising our glasses in the direction of Mercier’s house, and then we take a taxi to the deserted railway station and board the evening train to Paris. No one sees us leave. The town sinks away into the dark behind us.
    The verdict is due on Saturday afternoon, and Aline Ménard-Dorian decides it offers the most wonderful opportunity for a luncheon party. She arranges with her friend the Under-Secretary of State for Posts and Telegraphs to have a telephone line left open from her drawing room to the Bourse de Commerce in Rennes – we will thus have the result almost as soon as it is announced – and invites all her usual salon, plus a few others, to a buffet at one o’clock in the rue de la Faisanderie.
    I don’t feel much like going, but her invitation is so insistent – ‘it would be utterly wonderful to have you with us, my dearest Georges, to share in your moment of glory’ – that I feel it would be churlish to refuse; besides, I have nothing else to do.
    Back from exile, Zola attends, along with Georges and Albert Clemenceau, Jean Jaurès, and de Blowitz of the London Times ; there must be fifty or sixty of us, including Blanche de Comminges with a young man named d’Espic de Ginestet, whom she introduces as her fiancé. A liveried footman crouches by the telephone in the corner, checking occasionally with the operator to ensure the line is still working. At three fifteen, after we have finished eating – or not eating, in my case – he signals to our host, Paul Ménard, Aline’s husband, an industrialist of radical sympathies, and hands him the instrument. Ménard listens gravely for a moment and then announces, ‘The judges have retired to consider their verdict.’ He returns the telephone to the white-gloved hand of the footman.
    I go out on to the terrace to be alone, but several other guests follow me. De Blowitz, whose spherical body and bulbous ruddy features give him the look of a character out of Dickens – Bumble, perhaps, or Pickwick – asks me if I can remember how long the judges spent deliberating at the first court martial.
    ‘Half an hour.’
    ‘And would you say, monsieur, that the longer they take, the more likely the outcome is to be favourable to the accused, or the reverse?’
    ‘I really couldn’t answer that. Excuse me.’
    The minutes that follow are a torture. A neighbouring church chimes the half-hour, and then four o’clock. We patrol the patch of lawn. Zola says, ‘They are obviously weighing the evidence thoroughly, and if they do that then surely they must come down on our side. It is a good sign.’
    ‘No,’ says Georges Clemenceau, ‘men are being induced to change their minds and that cannot be good for Dreyfus.’
    I go back into the drawing room and stand at the window. Outside in the street a crowd has gathered. Someone shouts up to ask if there is any news. I shake my head. At a quarter to five, the footman signals to Ménard, who goes over to the telephone.
    Ménard listens and then announces, ‘The judges are returning to the courtroom.’
    So their deliberations lasted for an hour and a half. Is that long or short? Good or bad? I am not sure what to make of it.
    Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Someone makes a joke to alleviate the tension, and people laugh. Suddenly Ménard holds up his hand for silence. Something is happening at the other end of the line. He frowns. Slowly, crushingly, his arm descends. ‘Guilty,’ he says quietly, ‘by five votes to two. Sentence reduced to ten years’ imprisonment.’
    Just over a week later, at the end of the afternoon, Mathieu Dreyfus comes to see me. I am surprised to find him on my doorstep. He has never been to my apartment before. For the first time he looks grey and crumpled; even the flower in his buttonhole is faded. He perches on the edge of my small sofa, nervously turning his bowler hat around and around between his hands. He nods to my escritoire, which is strewn with papers, the desk lamp lit. ‘I see I am disturbing you at your work. Forgive me.’
    ‘It’s nothing – I thought I might try to write some sort of memoir while it’s all still fresh in my mind. Not for publication, though – at least not in my lifetime. Can I get you a drink?’
    ‘No. Thank you. I won’t stay long. I’m catching the evening train to Rennes.’
    ‘Ah. How is he?’
    ‘Frankly, Picquart, I fear he’s preparing himself for