An Officer and a Spy

War Ministry has been divided into four departments. The First deals with administration; the Second, intelligence; the Third, operations and training; and the Fourth, transport. I work in the Third, under the command of Colonel Boucher, who – also being a sensible fellow – is nowhere to be seen this winter’s morning. As his deputy, I have a small office to myself, a monk’s bare cell, with a window looking out on to a dreary courtyard. Two chairs, a desk and a filing cabinet are the extent of my furniture. The heating is not working. The air is so cold I can see my breath. I sit, still wearing my overcoat, and contemplate the drift of paperwork that has accumulated over the past few days. With a groan, I reach for one of the dossiers.
    It must be a couple of hours later, early in the afternoon, when I hear heavy footsteps approaching along the deserted corridor. Whoever it is walks past my office, stops, and then comes back and stands outside my door. The wood is thin enough for me to hear their heavy breathing. I stand, cross quietly to the door, listen, and then fling it open to discover the Chief of the Second Department – that is, the head of all military intelligence – staring me in the face. I am not sure which of us is the more flustered.
    ‘General Gonse,’ I say, saluting. ‘I had no idea it was you.’
    Gonse is famous for his fourteen-hour days. I might have guessed that if anyone else was likely to be in the building, it would be him. His enemies say it is the only way he can keep on top of his job.
    ‘That’s quite all right, Major Picquart. This place is a warren. May I?’ He waddles into my office on his short legs, puffing on a cigarette. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, but I just had a message from Colonel Guérin at the place Vendôme. He says that Dreyfus confessed at the parade this morning. Did you know that?’
    I gape at him like a fool. ‘No, General, I did not.’
    ‘Apparently, in the half-hour before the ceremony this morning, he told the captain who was guarding him that he did pass documents to the Germans.’ Gonse shrugs. ‘I thought you ought to know, as you were supposed to be keeping an eye on it all for the minister.’
    ‘But I’ve already given him my report . . .’ I am aghast. This is the sort of incompetence that can wreck a man’s career. Ever since October, despite the overwhelming evidence against him, Dreyfus has refused to admit his guilt. And now I’m being told that finally he has confessed, practically under my nose, and I missed it! ‘I had better go and get to the bottom of this.’
    ‘I suggest you do. And when you have, come back and report to me.’
    Once again I hurry out into the chilly grey half-light. I take a cab from the rank on the corner of the boulevard Saint-Germain, and when we reach the École Militaire I ask the driver to wait while I run inside. The silence of the vast empty parade ground mocks me. The only sign of life is the workmen clearing the litter from the place de Fontenoy. I return to the cab and ask to be driven as fast as possible to the headquarters of the military governor of Paris in the place Vendôme, where I wait in the lobby of that gloomy and dilapidated building for Colonel Guérin. He takes his time, and when he does appear he has the air of a man who has been interrupted in the middle of a good lunch to which he is anxious to return.
    ‘I’ve already explained all this to General Gonse.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. Would you mind explaining it to me?’
    He sighs. ‘Captain Lebrun-Renault was detailed to keep an eye on Dreyfus in the guardroom until the ceremony started. He handed him over to the escort, and just as the degradation started he came over to where a group of us were standing and said something like “Well I’ll be damned, the scum just admitted everything.”’
    I take out my notebook. ‘What did the captain say Dreyfus had told him?’
    ‘I don’t recall his actual words. The essence of it was that he’d handed over secrets to the Germans, but they weren’t very important, that the minister knew all about them, and that in a few years’ time the whole story would come out. Something like that. You need to talk to Lebrun-Renault.’
    ‘I do. Where can I find him?’
    ‘I’ve no idea. He’s off duty.’
    ‘Is he still in Paris?’
    ‘My dear Major, how would I know that?’
    ‘I don’t quite understand,’ I say. ‘Why would Dreyfus suddenly admit his guilt to a total