An Officer and a Spy

He delivers the line in exactly the same theatrical tone and with the same gesture of accusation that he used at the Dreyfus court martial: The traitor is that man! There is a gasp in the courtroom and in that instant I forget my vow to keep my cool. Henry has just called me a liar. I turn on him and raise my hand to silence him. ‘You do not have the right to say that! I shall demand satisfaction for that remark!’

There is noise all around me now — some applause, some jeers, as the realisation spreads that I have just challenged Henry to a duel. Henry looks at me in surprise. The judge gavels for order but I am barely listening. I can control myself no longer. All the frustrations of the past year and a half burst forth. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, you have seen here men like Colonel Henry, Major Lauth, and the keeper of the archives, Gribelin, make the most foul accusations against me. You’ve just heard Colonel Henry call me a liar. You’ve heard Major Lauth, without a shred of proof, suggest I invented the petit bleu. Well, gentlemen, do you want to know why this is happening? All the architects of the Dreyfus affair. .’

‘Colonel!’ warns the judge.

‘. . that is, Colonel Henry and Monsieur Gribelin, aided by Colonel du Paty de Clam, at the direction of General Gonse, are covering up the mistakes that were made under my predecessor, Colonel Sandherr. He was a sick man, already suffering from the paralysis that killed him, and they have gone on covering up for him ever since — perhaps out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, perhaps for the sake of the department: I don’t know. And shall I tell you what my crime really was, in their eyes? It was to believe that there was a better way of defending our honour than blind obedience. And because of that, for months now, insults have been heaped upon me by newspapers that are paid for spreading slander and lies.’

Zola cries out, ‘That’s right!’ The judge is gavelling me to stop. I press on.

‘For months I have been in the most horrible situation that any officer can occupy — assailed in my honour, and unable to defend myself. And tomorrow perhaps I shall be thrown out of this army that I love, and to which I have given twenty-five years of my life. Well then — so be it! I still believe it was my duty to seek truth and justice. I believe that is the best way for any soldier to serve the army, and I also believe it was my duty as an honest man.’ I turn back to the judge and add quietly, ‘That is all I want to say.’

Behind me there is some applause and a lot of jeering. A lone voice calls out, ‘Vive Picquart!’

That night, to avoid the mob, I have to be smuggled out of a side door on to the quai des Orfèvres. The sky above the palace is the colour of blood, flecked with drifting sparks, and when we turn the corner we can see that on the embankment on the other side of the Seine a crowd of several hundred are burning books — Zola’s books, I discover afterwards, together with any journals they can lay their hands on that are sympathetic to Dreyfus. There is something pagan about the way the figures seem to dance around the flames above the darkness of the river. The gendarmes have to force a way through for our carriage. The horses shy; the driver has to fight to bring them under control. We cross the river and have barely travelled a hundred metres along the boulevard de Sébastapol when we hear the cascading sound of plate glass shattering and a mob comes running down the centre of the street. A man yells, ‘Down with the Jews!’ Moments later we pass a shop with its windows smashed and paint daubed across a storefront sign that reads Levy amp; Dreyfus.

The next day when I return to the Palace of Justice, I am taken not to the Assize Court but to a different part of the building, and questioned by a magistrate, Paul Bertulus, about the forged messages I received in Tunisia. He is a big, handsome, charming man in his middle forties, appointed to the task by General Billot. He has an upturned moustache and a red carnation in his buttonhole and looks as if he would be more at home watching the racing at Longchamps than sitting here. I know him by reputation to be a conservative, a royalist and a friend of Henry, which presumably is why he was given the task. Therefore I have the very lowest expectations of his diligence as an investigator. Instead, to my surprise, the more I describe what befell me in north Africa, the more obviously disturbed he becomes.

‘So let me be clear, Colonel. You are quite certain that Mademoiselle Blanche de Comminges did not send you these telegrams?’

‘Without doubt her name has only been dragged into this affair by Colonel du Paty.’

‘And why would he do that?’

I glance at the stenographer who is recording my evidence. ‘I would be willing to tell you that, Monsieur Bertulus, but only in confidence.’

‘That is not a regular procedure, Colonel.’

‘This is not a regular matter.’