An Officer and a Spy

every fifth step; only once did the prisoner stumble, but quickly he corrected himself. As the echo of the last strike died away, they halted and saluted. Then the gunners about-turned and marched away, leaving the convict to face the general alone.
    Drums rolled. A bugle sounded. An official stepped forward, holding a sheet of paper up high in front of his face, like a herald in a play. The proclamation flapped in the icy wind, but his voice was surprisingly powerful for so small a man.
    ‘In the name of the people of France,’ he intoned, ‘the first permanent court martial of the military government of Paris, having met in camera, delivered its verdict in public session as follows. The following single question was put to the members of the court: Is Alfred Dreyfus, captain of the 14th Artillery Regiment, a certified General Staff officer and probationer of the army’s General Staff, guilty of delivering to a foreign power or to its agents in Paris in 1894 a certain number of secret or confidential documents concerning national defence?
    ‘The court declared unanimously: “Yes, the accused is guilty.”
    ‘The court unanimously sentences Alfred Dreyfus to the penalty of deportation to a fortified enclosure for life, pronounces the discharge of Captain Alfred Dreyfus, and orders that his military degradation should take place before the first military parade of the Paris garrison.’
    He stepped back. General Darras rose in his stirrups and drew his sword. The condemned man had to crane his neck to look up at him. His pince-nez had been taken from him. He wore a pair of rimless spectacles.
    ‘Alfred Dreyfus, you are not worthy to bear arms. In the name of the French people, we degrade you!’
    ‘And it was at this point,’ I tell Mercier, ‘that the prisoner spoke for the first time.’
    Mercier jerks back in surprise. ‘ He spoke? ’
    ‘Yes.’ I pull my notebook from my trouser pocket. ‘He raised both his arms above his head, and shouted . . .’ And here I check to make sure I have it exactly right: ‘“Soldiers, they are degrading an innocent man . . . Soldiers, they are dishonouring an innocent man . . . Long live France . . . Long live the army . . .”’ I read it plainly, without emotion, which is appropriate, because that is how it was delivered. The only difference is that Dreyfus, as a Mulhouse Jew, flavoured the words with a slight German accent.
    The minister frowns. ‘How was this allowed to happen? I thought you said they planned to play a march if the prisoner made a speech?’
    ‘General Darras took the view that a few shouts of protest did not constitute a speech, and that music would disturb the gravity of the occasion.’
    ‘And was there any reaction from the crowd?’
    ‘Yes.’ I check my notes again. ‘They began to chant: “Death . . . death . . . death . . .”’
    When the chanting started, we looked towards the railings. Sandherr said: ‘They need to get a move on, or this could get out of hand.’
    I asked to borrow the opera glasses. I raised them to my eyes, adjusted the focus, and saw a giant of a man, a sergeant major of the Republican Guard, lay his hands on Dreyfus. In a series of powerful movements he yanked the epaulettes from Dreyfus’s shoulders, wrenched all the buttons from his tunic and the gold braid from his sleeves, knelt and ripped the red stripes from his trousers. I focused on Dreyfus’s expression. It was blank. He stared ahead as he was tugged this way and that, submitting to these indignities as a child might to having its clothes adjusted by an irritable adult. Finally, the sergeant major drew Dreyfus’s sword from its scabbard, planted the tip in the mud, and snapped the blade with a thrust of his boot. He threw the two halves on to the little heap of haberdashery at Dreyfus’s feet, took two sharp paces backwards, turned his head towards the general and saluted, while Dreyfus gazed down at the torn symbols of his honour.
    Sandherr said impatiently: ‘Come on, Picquart – you’re the one with the glasses. Tell us what he looks like.’
    ‘He looks,’ I replied, handing the binoculars back to the clerk, ‘like a Jewish tailor counting the cost of all that gold braid going to waste. If he had a tape measure around his neck, he might be in a cutting room on the rue Auber.’
    ‘That’s good,’ said Sandherr. ‘I like that.’
    ‘Very good,’ echoes Mercier, closing his eyes. ‘I can picture him