By now the time was drawing close and one could feel the tension tightening under that sinister pale sky. Nearly four thousand soldiers had been drawn up on parade, yet not a sound escaped them. Even the crowd was hushed. The only movement came from the edges of the cour Morland, where a few invited guests were still being shown to their places, hurrying apologetically like latecomers at a funeral. A tiny slim woman in a white fur hat and muff, carrying a frilly blue umbrella and being escorted by a tall lieutenant of the dragoons, was recognised by some of the spectators nearest the railings, and a light patter of applause, punctuated by cries of ‘Hurrah!’ and ‘Bravo!’, drifted over the mud.
Sandherr, looking up, grunted, ‘Who the devil is that?’
One of the captains took the opera glasses from the clerk and trained them on the lady in furs, who was now nodding and twirling her umbrella in gracious acknowledgement to the crowd.
‘Well I’ll be damned if it isn’t the Divine Sarah!’ He adjusted the binoculars slightly. ‘And that’s Rochebouet of the 28th looking after her, the lucky devil!’
Mercier sits back and caresses his white moustache. Sarah Bernhardt, appearing in his production! This is the stuff he wants from me: the artistic touch, the society gossip. Still, he pretends to be displeased. ‘I can’t think who would have invited an actress . . .’
At ten minutes to nine, the commander of the parade, General Darras, rode out along the cobbled path into the centre of the parade ground. The general’s mount snorted and dipped her head as he pulled her up; she shuffled round in a circle, eyeing the vast multitude, pawed the hard ground once, and then stood still.
At nine, the clock began to strike and a command rang out: ‘Companies! Attention!’ In thunderous unison the boots of four thousand men crashed together. At the same instant, from the far corner of the parade ground a group of five figures appeared and advanced towards the general. As they came closer, the tiny indistinct shapes resolved themselves into an escort of four gunners, surrounding the condemned man. They came on at a smart pace, marching with such perfect timing that their right feet hit the stroke of the chime exactly on 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 exactly.’
Dreyfus shouted out again: ‘Long live France! I swear I am innocent!’
Then he began a long march, under escort, around all four sides of the cour Morland, parading in his torn uniform in front of every detachment, so that the soldiers could remember for ever how the army deals with traitors. Every so often he would call out, ‘I am innocent!’ which would draw jeers and cries of ‘Judas!’ and ‘Jewish traitor!’ from the watching crowd. The whole thing seemed to drag on endlessly, though by my watch it lasted no more than seven minutes.
When Dreyfus started to walk towards our position, the man from the Foreign Ministry, who was taking his turn with the binoculars, said in his languid voice: ‘I don’t understand how the fellow can allow himself to be subjected to such humiliation and still maintain he’s innocent. Surely if he really was innocent he would put up a struggle, rather than allow himself to be led around so tamely? Or is this a Jewish trait, do you suppose?’
‘Of course it’s a Jewish trait!’ retorted Sandherr. ‘This is a race entirely without patriotism, or honour, or pride. They have done nothing but betray the people they live among for centuries, starting with Jesus Christ.’
When Dreyfus passed where we were standing, Sandherr turned his back to demonstrate his contempt. But I could not take my eyes from him. Whether because of the past three months in prison or the bitter cold of that morning, his face was greyish-white and puffy: the colour of a maggot. His buttonless black tunic was hanging open, revealing his white shirt. His sparse hair was sticking up in tufts; something gleamed in it. He did not break step as
he marched by with his guards. He glanced in our direction and briefly his gaze locked on to mine and I saw straight into his soul, glimpsed the animal fear, the desperate mental struggle to keep himself together. As I watched him go, I realised the gleam in his hair was saliva. He must have wondered what part I had played in his ruin.
Only one stage of his Calvary remained: for him the worst part of it, I am sure, when he had to pass along the railings in front of the crowd. The police had linked arms to try to keep the public at a distance. But when the spectators saw the prisoner approaching, they surged forwards. The police line bulged, tautened and then burst apart, releasing a flood of protesters, who poured across the pavement and spread along the railings. Dreyfus stopped, turned and faced them, raised his arms and said something. But he had his back to me and I couldn’t hear his words, only the familiar taunts of ‘Judas!’, ‘Traitor!’ and ‘Death to the Jew!’ that were thrown back in his face.
Finally, his escort pulled him away and steered him towards the prison wagon, waiting just ahead with its mounted outriders. The condemned man’s hands were cuffed behind his back. He stepped up into the wagon. The doors were closed and locked, the horses whipped, and the cortège jolted forwards, out of the gate and into the place de Fontenoy. For a moment I doubted if it would escape the surrounding crowd, stretching out their hands to strike the sides of the wagon. But the cavalry officers used the flats of their swords to drive them back. I heard the whip crack twice. The driver shouted a command. The wagon accelerated free of the mob, turned left and disappeared.
An instant later the order was given for the parade to march past. The stamp of boots seemed to shake the ground. Bugles were blown. Drums beat time. As the band struck up ‘Sambre-et-Meuse’ it started to snow. I felt a great sense of release. I believe we all did. Spontaneously we turned to one another and shook hands. It was as if a healthy body had purged itself of something foul and pestilential, and now life could begin anew.
I finish my report. The minister’s room falls silent, apart from the crackle of the fire.
‘The only pity,’ Mercier says eventually, ‘is that the traitor will continue to remain alive. I say this more for his sake than anyone else’s. What kind of life is left to him? It would have been kinder to finish him off. That’s why I wanted the Chamber of Deputies to restore the death penalty for treason.’
Boisdeffre nods ingratiatingly. ‘You did your best, Minister.’
With a creak of knee joints, Mercier stands. He walks over to a large globe, which stands in a mount beside his desk, and beckons me to join him. He puts on a pair of spectacles and peers down at the Earth, like a short-sighted deity.
‘I need to put him in a place where it’s impossible for him to talk to anyone. I don’t want him smuggling out any more treasonous messages. And just as important, I don’t want anyone communicating with him.’
The minister places a surprisingly delicate hand on the northern hemisphere and gently turns the world. The Atlantic slides past. He halts the sphere and points to a spot on the coast of South America, seven thousand kilometres from Paris. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, inviting me to guess.
I say, ‘The penal colony at Cayenne?’
‘Close, but more secure than that.’ He leans in and taps the globe. ‘Devil’s Island: fifteen kilometres off the coast. The sea around it is infested with sharks. The immense waves and strong currents make it hard even to land a boat.’
‘I thought that place had been closed down years ago.’
‘It was. The last inhabitants were a colony of convict lepers. I will need to seek approval in the Chamber, but this time I will get it. The island will be reopened especially for Dreyfus. Well, what do you think?’
My immediate reaction is surprise. Mercier, married to an Englishwoman, is considered a republican and a free-thinker – he refuses to attend Mass, for example – qualities I admire. And yet, for all that, there lingers about him something of the Jesuit fanatic. Devil’s Island? I think. We’re supposed to be on the brink of the twentieth century, not the eighteenth . . .
‘Well?’ he repeats. ‘What’s your view?’
‘Isn’t it a trifle . . .’ I choose the word carefully, wishing to be tactful, ‘Dumas?’
‘Dumas? What do you mean, Dumas?’
‘Only that it sounds like a punishment from historical fiction. I feel an echo of The Man in the Iron Mask. Won’t Dreyfus become known as “The Man on Devil’s Island”? It will make him the most famous prisoner in the world . . .’
‘Exactly!’ cries Mercier, and slaps his thigh in a rare display of feeling. ‘That’s exactly what I like about it. The public’s imagination will be captured.’
I bow to his superior political judgement. At the same time I wonder what the public has to do with it. Only when I am collecting my coat and about to leave does he offer a clue.
‘This may be the last time that you will see me in this office.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, General.’
‘You understand I take little interest in politics – I am a professional soldier, not a politician. But I gather there is great dissatisfaction among the parties, and the government may only last another week or two. There may even be a new president.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, there it is. We soldiers serve where we are ordered.’ He shakes my hand. ‘I have been impressed by the intelligence you have shown during this wretched affair, Major Picquart. It will not be forgotten, will it, Chief?’
‘No, Minister.’ Boisdeffre also rises to shake my hand. ‘Thank you, Picquart. Most illuminating. One might almost have been there oneself. How are your Russian studies, by the way?’
‘I doubt I’ll ever be able to speak the language, General, but I can read Tolstoy now – with a dictionary, of course.’
‘Excellent. There are great things happening between France and Russia. A good knowledge of Russian will be very useful to a rising officer.’
I am at the door and about to open it, feeling suitably warmed by all this flattery, when Mercier suddenly asks: ‘Tell me, was my name mentioned at all?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I’m not sure what he means. ‘Mentioned in what sense?’
‘During the ceremony this morning.’
‘I don’t think so . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter at all.’ Mercier makes a dismissive gesture. ‘I just wondered if there was any kind of demonstration in the crowd . . .’
‘No, none that I saw.’
‘Good. I didn’t expect there would be.’
I close the door softly behind me.
Stepping back out into the windy canyon of the rue Saint-Dominique, I clutch my cap to my head and walk the one hundred metres to the War Ministry next door. There is nobody about. Clearly my brother officers have better things to do on a Saturday than attend to the bureaucracy of the French army. Sensible fellows! I shall write up my official report, clear my desk, and try to put Dreyfus out of my mind. I trot up the stairs and along the corridor to my office.
Since Napoleon’s time, the 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.