An Officer and a Spy

into the courtyard to escape the oppressive atmosphere. It was just before six, desperately cold. Shadowed in the dim gaslight was a company of soldiers from the Paris garrison. By this time the authorities had closed the gates to the street. It felt like a fortress under siege. I could hear the crowd beyond the high wall, talking and moving in the darkness. I smoked a cigarette. A reporter said, ‘Did you notice the way Dreyfus missed every other step when they brought him downstairs? He doesn’t know where he is, poor wretch.’ Another said, ‘I hope they’re done in time for the first edition.’ ‘Oh, they will be, don’t worry – they’ll want their dinners.’
    At half past six, an aide to the judges announced that the doors to the courtroom had been reopened. There was a stampede for places. I followed the reporters back upstairs. Gonse, Henry, du Paty and Gribelin stood in a row together beside the door. Such was the nervous tension their faces seemed scarcely less white than the wall. We nodded but didn’t speak. I reclaimed my seat and took out my notebook for the final time. There must have been close to a hundred people jammed into that confined space, yet they made barely a sound. The silence seemed subaqueous – to exert a physical pressure on one’s lungs and eardrums. I wanted desperately for it to be over. At seven, there was a shout from the corridor – ‘Shoulder arms! Present arms!’ – followed by a thump of boots. The judges filed back in, led by Maurel.
    ‘All rise!’
    The clerk, Vallecalle, read the verdict. ‘In the name of the people of France,’ he said, at which point all seven judges raised their hands to their caps in salute, ‘the first permanent court martial of the military government of Paris, having met in camera, delivered its verdict in public session as follows . . .’ When he pronounced the word ‘Guilty!’ there was a shout from the back of the court of ‘ Vive la patrie! ’ Reporters began running from the room.
    Maurel said, ‘Maître Demange, you may go and inform the condemned man.’
    The lawyer didn’t move. He had his head in his hands. He was crying.
    A strange noise seemed to blow in from outside – an odd pattering and howling. I mistook it at first for rain or wind. Then I realised it was the crowd in the street reacting to the verdict with applause and cheering. ‘Down with the Jews!’ ‘Death to the Jewish traitor!’
    ‘Major Picquart to see the Minister of War . . .’
    Past the sentry. Across the courtyard. Into the lobby. Up the stairs.
    Mercier was standing in the middle of his office, wearing full dress uniform. His chest was armour-plated with medals and decorations. His English wife stood beside him in a blue velvet gown with diamonds at her throat. They both looked very small and dainty, like a pair of mannequins in an historical tableau.
    I was breathless from my run, sweating despite the cold. ‘Guilty,’ I managed to stammer out. ‘Deportation for life to a fortified enclosure.’
    Madame Mercier’s hand flew straight to her breast. ‘The poor man,’ she said.
    The minister blinked at me but made no comment except to say, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
    I found Boisdeffre in his office, similarly bemedalled in dress uniform, about to depart for the same state banquet at the Élysée Palace as the Merciers. His only remark was, ‘At least I shall be able to dine in peace.’
    Duty done, I ran out into the rue Saint-Dominique and managed, by the skin of my teeth, to hail a taxi. By eight thirty I was slipping into my seat beside Blanche de Comminges at the Salle d’Harcourt. I looked around for Debussy but couldn’t see him. The conductor tapped his baton, the flautist raised his instrument to his lips, and those first few exquisite, plangent bars – which some say are the birth of modern music – washed Dreyfus clean from my mind.
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    1 Charles du Paty de Clam (1895–1948), subsequently Head of Jewish Affairs in Vichy France.

12
    I WAIT DELIBERATELY until the day is almost over before I go upstairs to see Gribelin. He looks startled to see me standing in his doorway for the second time in two days. He gets creakily to his feet. ‘Colonel?’
    ‘Good evening, Gribelin. I want to see the secret file on Dreyfus, if you please.’
    Is it my imagination or do I detect, as with Lauth, a pinprick of alarm in his eyes? He says, ‘I don’t have that particular file, Colonel, I’m afraid.’
    ‘In