An Officer and a Spy

What do you make of them?’
    Unsure how to answer – Sandherr is a colonel, after all – I say cautiously, ‘A dedicated group of patriots, doing invaluable work and receiving little or no recognition.’
    It is a good answer. So good that perhaps my entire life – and with it the story I am about to tell – may have turned upon it. At any rate, Mercier, or the man behind the mask that is Mercier, gives me a searching look as if to check that I really mean what I say, and then nods in approval. ‘You’re right there, Picquart. France owes them a lot.’
    All six of these paragons were present that morning to witness the culmination of their work: the euphemistically named ‘Statistical Section’ of the General Staff. I sought them out after I had finished talking with Lebrun-Renault. They stood slightly apart from everyone else in the south-west corner of the parade ground, in the lee of one of the low surrounding buildings. Sandherr had his hands in his pockets and his head down, and seemed entirely remote—
    ‘Do you remember,’ interrupts the Minister of War, turning to Boisdeffre, ‘that they used to call Jean Sandherr “the handsomest man in the French Army”?’
    ‘I do remember that, Minister,’ confirms the Chief of the General Staff. ‘It’s hard to believe it now, poor fellow.’
    On one side of Sandherr stood his deputy, a plump alcoholic with a face the colour of brick, taking regular nips from a gunmetal hip flask; on the other was the only member of his staff I knew by sight – the massive figure of Joseph Henry, who clapped me on the shoulder and boomed that he hoped I’d be mentioning him in my report to the minister. The two junior officers of the section, both captains, seemed colourless by comparison. There was also a civilian, a bony clerk who looked as if he seldom saw fresh air, holding a pair of opera glasses. They shifted along to make room for me and the alcoholic offered me a swig of his filthy cognac. Presently we were joined by a couple of other outsiders: a smart official from the Foreign Ministry, and that disturbing booby Colonel du Paty de Clam of the General Staff, his monocle flashing like an empty eye socket in the morning light.
    By now the time was drawing close and one could feel the tension tightening under that sinister pale sky. Nearly four thousand soldiers had been drawn up on parade, yet not a sound escaped them. Even the crowd was hushed. The only movement came from the edges of the cour Morland, where a few invited guests were still being shown to their places, hurrying apologetically like latecomers at a funeral. A tiny slim woman in a white fur hat and muff, carrying a frilly blue umbrella and being escorted by a tall lieutenant of the dragoons, was recognised by some of the spectators nearest the railings, and a light patter of applause, punctuated by cries of ‘Hurrah!’ and ‘Bravo!’, drifted over the mud.
    Sandherr, looking up, grunted, ‘Who the devil is that?’
    One of the captains took the opera glasses from the clerk and trained them on the lady in furs, who was now nodding and twirling her umbrella in gracious acknowledgement to the crowd.
    ‘Well I’ll be damned if it isn’t the Divine Sarah!’ He adjusted the binoculars slightly. ‘And that’s Rochebouet of the 28th looking after her, the lucky devil!’
    Mercier sits back and caresses his white moustache. Sarah Bernhardt, appearing in his production! This is the stuff he wants from me: the artistic touch, the society gossip. Still, he pretends to be displeased. ‘I can’t think who would have invited an actress  . . .’
    At ten minutes to nine, the commander of the parade, General Darras, rode out along the cobbled path into the centre of the parade ground. The general’s mount snorted and dipped her head as he pulled her up; she shuffled round in a circle, eyeing the vast multitude, pawed the hard ground once, and then stood still.
    At nine, the clock began to strike and a command rang out: ‘Companies! Attention!’ In thunderous unison the boots of four thousand men crashed together. At the same instant, from the far corner of the parade ground a group of five figures appeared and advanced towards the general. As they came closer, the tiny indistinct shapes resolved themselves into an escort of four gunners, surrounding the condemned man. They came on at a smart pace, marching with such perfect timing that their right feet hit the stroke of the chime exactly on