An Officer and a Spy

Du Paty. Yes — of course — the moment the name comes into my mind it is obvious: du Paty has been drafted in to help devise this sinister production; his decayed Gothic style, part Dumas, part Fleurs du Mal, is inimitable. But whereas a year or two ago I would have laughed off any threat from so ludicrous a figure, now I know differently. Now I have seen what he is capable of. And that is when I realise I am being fitted for the same convict’s outfit as Dreyfus.

The echo of the next detonation, on Wednesday 17 November, is sufficient to shake even the sleepy palms of the Sousse Military Club:

DREYFUS’S BROTHER NAMES ‘THE REAL TRAITOR’. Paris, 2h. Here is the text of the letter which the brother of Dreyfus has sent to the Minister of War: ‘Monsieur le Minister, The only basis for the accusation against my brother is an unsigned, undated letter establishing that confidential documents were delivered to an agent of a foreign power. I have the honour to inform you that the author of that document is M. le comte Walsin Esterhazy, an infantry major suspended from active service since last spring for reasons of temporary ill health. The handwriting of Major Esterhazy is identical with that of this document. I cannot doubt, Minister, that once you know the perpetrator of the treason for which my brother has been convicted you will act swiftly to see that justice is done. With the deepest respect, Mathieu Dreyfus.’

I read it after lunch and then retreat to the window, where I pretend to be immersed in my novel. Behind me the Dépêche is passed from hand to hand. ‘Well,’ says one officer, ‘there you go — that’s the Jews for you — they stick together and they don’t let up.’ Another says, ‘I must say, I feel sorry for this fellow Esterhazy.’ Then a third, the captain who lusted after Savignaud, chimes in: ‘You see here it says that Esterhazy has written to General Billot? “I have read in this morning’s papers the infamous accusation brought against me. I ask you to order an inquiry, and I am ready to reply to all the charges.”’ ‘Good for him,’ rejoins the first, ‘but what chance does he stand against all that Jewish gold?’ The captain: ‘That’s true enough — perhaps we should raise a subscription for poor old Esterhazy? Put me down for twenty francs.’

The following day I go for a long ride along the coast to clear my head. Far out to sea, immense clouds are rolling north, trailing funeral draperies of rain. It is the start of the wettest season. I spur my mount and gallop towards the thousand-year-old watchtower of the Ribat in Monastir, a distance of perhaps fifteen kilometres. As I come closer, it stands out pale against the darkening sea. I consider riding into the little fishing port. But the sky is now as black as squid’s ink, and sure enough, as I turn for home the cloud overhead splits like a slashed sac and a drenching cold rain begins to fall.

When I reach the base I go straight to my quarters to change. The door, which I had made sure to lock, is open and I enter to find Jemel standing guiltily in the middle of my sitting room. A few seconds earlier and I would have caught him mid search, but now I look around and can see nothing out of place.

I say curtly, ‘Fetch me some water; I need a bath.’

‘Yes, Colonel.’

By the time I reach the Military Club I am too late for lunch, and I can tell from the instant I enter that something momentous has happened. Conversations cease as I walk towards my normal place. Several of the older officers quickly finish their drinks and leave. Today’s Dépêche has been placed carefully, pointedly, on my armchair, folded to a story on the front page.