‘I see. Good.’ Although I nod in approval, this procedure strikes me as amateurish in the extreme. But I am not going to pick a fight on my first day. ‘I have a feeling we are going to get along very well, Major Henry.’
‘I do hope so, Colonel.’
I look at my watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I shall have to go out soon to see the Chief of Staff.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘No.’ Again I am not sure if he is being serious. ‘That won’t be necessary. He’s taking me to lunch.’
‘Splendid. I’ll be in my office if you need me.’ Our exchange is as formal as a pas de deux.
Henry salutes and leaves. I close the door and look around me. My skin crawls slightly; I feel as if I am wearing the outfit of a dead man. There are shadows on the walls where Sandherr’s pictures hung, burns on the desk from his cigarettes, ring marks on the table from his drinks. A worn track in the carpet shows where he used to push back his chair. His presence oppresses me. I find the correct key and unlock the safe. Inside are several dozen letters, unopened, addressed to various places around the city, to four or five different names – aliases presumably. These, I guess, must be reports from Sandherr’s agents that have been forwarded since he left. I open one – Unusual activity is reported in the garrison at Metz . . . – then close it again. Espionage work: how I loathe it. I should never have taken this posting. It seems impossible to imagine that I will ever feel at home.
Beneath the letters is a thin manila envelope containing a large photograph, twenty-five centimetres by twenty. I recognise it immediately from Dreyfus’s court martial – a copy of the covering note, the famous bordereau, that accompanied the documents he passed to the Germans. It was the central evidence against him produced in court. Until this morning I had no idea how the Statistical Section had got its hands on it. And no wonder. I have to admire Lauth’s handiwork. Nobody looking at it could tell it had once been ripped into pieces: all the tear marks have been carefully touched out, so that it seems like a whole document.
I sit at the desk and unlock it. Despite the slow progressive nature of his illness, Sandherr seems to have ended up vacating the premises in a hurry. A few odds and ends have been left behind. They roll about when I pull open the drawers. Pieces of chalk. A ball of sealing wax. Some foreign coins. Four bullets. And various tins and bottles of medicine: mercury, extract of guaiacum, potassium iodine.
General de Boisdeffre gives me lunch at the Jockey Club to celebrate my appointment, which is decent of him. The windows are all closed, the doors are shut, bowls of freesias and sweet peas have been placed on every table. But nothing can entirely dispel the sweetly sour odour of human excrement. Boisdeffre affects not to notice. He orders a good white burgundy and drinks most of it, his high cheeks gradually flushing the colour of a Virginia creeper in autumn. I drink sparingly and keep a tiny notebook open beside my plate like a good staff officer.
The president of the club, Sosthènes de La Rochefoucauld, duc de Doudeauville, is at the neighbouring table. He comes across to greet the general. Boisdeffre introduces me. The duc’s nose and cheekbones look as delicately ridged and fragile as meringues; his handshake is a brush of papery skin against my fingers.
Over potted trout the general talks about the new tsar, Nicholas II. Boisdeffre is anxious to be informed of any Russian anarchist cells that may be active in Paris. ‘I want you to keep your ears open wide for that one; anything we can pass on to Moscow will be valuable in negotiations.’ He swallows a morsel of fish and goes on: ‘An alliance with Russia will solve our inferiority vis-à-vis the Germans with one diplomatic stroke. It is worth a hundred thousand men, at least. That is why half my time is devoted to foreign affairs. At the highest level, the border between the military and the political ceases to exist. But we must never forget the army must always be above mere party politics.’
This prompts him to reminisce about Mercier, no longer Minister of War but now seeing out the years before his retirement as commander of the 4th Army Corps at Le Mans. ‘He was right to foresee that the President might fall, wrong to believe that he stood any chance of replacing him.’
I am so surprised I stop eating, my fork poised midway to my mouth. ‘General Mercier thought that he might become president?’
‘Indeed, he entertained that delusion. This is one of the problems with a republic – at least under a monarchy no one seriously imagines he can become king. When Monsieur Casimir-Perier resigned in January, and the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies convened at Versailles to elect his successor, General Mercier’s “friends” – as it would be delicate to call them – had a flyer circulated, calling on them to elect the man who had just delivered the traitor Dreyfus to the court martial. He received precisely three votes out of eight hundred.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I believe it was what our English friends call “a long shot”.’ Boisdeffre smiles. ‘But now of course the politicians will never forgive him.’ He dabs at his moustache with his napkin. ‘You’ll have to think a little more politically from now on, Colonel, if you’re going to fulfil the great hopes we all have of you.’ I bow my head slightly, as if the Chief of Staff is hanging a decoration round my neck. He says, ‘Tell me, what do you make of the Dreyfus business?’
‘Distasteful,’ I reply. ‘Squalid. Distracting. I’m glad it’s over.’
‘Ah, but is it, though? I am thinking politically here, rather than militarily. The Jews are a most persistent race. For them, Dreyfus sitting on his rock is like an aching tooth. It obsesses them. They won’t leave it alone.’
‘He’s an emblem of their shame. But what can they do?’
‘I’m not sure. But they’ll do something, we may count on that.’ Boisdeffre stares over the traffic in the rue Rabelais and falls silent for a few moments. His profile in the odiferous sunlight is immensely distinguished, carved in flesh by centuries of breeding. I am reminded of the effigy of a long-suffering Norman knight, kneeling in some Bayeux chapel. He says thoughtfully, ‘What Dreyfus said to that young captain, about not having a motive for treason – I think we ought to be ready with an answer to that. I’d like you to keep the case active. Investigate the family – “feed the file”, as your predecessor used to say. See if you can find a little more evidence about motives that we can hold in reserve in case we need it.’
‘Yes, of course, General.’ I add it to the list in my notebook, just beneath ‘Russian anarchists’: ‘Dreyfus: motive?’
The rillettes de canard arrive and the conversation moves on to the current German naval review at Kiel.
That afternoon I extract the agents’ letters from the safe in my new office, stuff them into my briefcase and set off to visit Colonel Sandherr. His address, given to me by Gribelin, is only a ten-minute walk away, across the river in the rue Léonce Reynaud. His wife answers the door. When I tell her I’m her husband’s successor, she draws back her head like a snake about to strike: ‘You have his position, monsieur, what more do you want from him?’
‘If it’s inconvenient, madame, I can come back another time.’
‘Oh, can you? How kind! But why would it be convenient for him to see you at any time?’
‘It’s all right, my dear.’ From somewhere behind her comes Sandherr’s weary voice. ‘Picquart is an Alsace man. Let him in.’
‘You,’ she mutters bitterly, still staring at me although she is addressing her husband, ‘you’re too good to these people!’ Nevertheless, she stands aside to let me pass.
Sandherr calls out, ‘I’m in the bedroom, Picquart, come through,’ and I follow the direction of his voice into a heavily shaded room that smells of disinfectant. He is propped up in bed in a nightshirt. He switches on a lamp. As he turns his unshaven face towards me, I see it is covered in sores, some still raw and weeping, others pitted and dry. I had heard there had been a sharp deterioration in his condition; I had no idea it was as bad as this. He warns: ‘I’d stay there if I
were you.’
‘Excuse me for this intrusion, Colonel,’ I say, trying not to allow my distaste to show, ‘but I rather need your help.’ I hoist the briefcase to show him.
‘I thought you might.’ He points a wavering finger at my case. ‘It’s all in there, is it? Let me see.’
I take out the letters and approach the bed. ‘I assume they’re from agents.’ I place them on his blanket, just within his reach, and step back. ‘But I don’t know who they are, or who to trust.’
‘My watchword is: don’t trust anyone, then you won’t be disappointed.’ He turns to stretch for his spectacles on the nightstand and I see how the sores that swirl under the stubble of his jaw and throat run in a livid track across the side of his neck. He puts on the glasses and squints at one of the letters. ‘Sit down. Pull up that chair. Do you have a pencil? You will need to write this down.’
For the next two hours, with barely a pause for breath, Sandherr takes me on a guided tour through his secret world: this man works in a laundry supplying the German garrison in Metz; that man has a position in the railway company on the eastern frontier; she is the mistress of a German officer in Mulhouse; he is a petty criminal in Lorraine who will burgle houses to order; he is a drunk; he is a homosexual; she is a patriot who keeps house for the military governor and who lost her nephew in ’70; trust this one and that one; take no notice of him or her; he needs three hundred francs immediately; he should be dispensed with altogether . . . I take it down at dictation speed until we have worked through all the letters. He gives me a list of other agents and their code names from memory, and tells me to ask Gribelin for their addresses. He starts to tire.
‘Would you like me to leave?’ I ask.
‘In a minute.’ He gestures feebly. ‘In the chiffonier over there are a couple of things you ought to have.’ He watches as I kneel to open it. I take out a metal cash box, very heavy, and also a large envelope. ‘Open them,’ he says. The cash box is unlocked. Inside is a small fortune in gold coins and banknotes: mostly French francs, but also German marks and English pounds. He says, ‘There should be about forty-eight thousand francs’ worth. When you run short, speak to Boisdeffre. Monsieur Paléologue of the Foreign Ministry is also under instructions to contribute. Use it for agents, special payments. Be sure to keep plenty by you. Put the box in your bag.’
I do as he tells me, and then I open the envelope. It contains about a hundred sheets of paper: lists of names and addresses, neatly handwritten, arranged by département.
Sandherr says, ‘It needs to be kept updated.’
‘What is it?’
‘My life’s work.’ He emits a dry laugh, which degenerates into a cough.
I turn the pages. There must be two or three thousand people listed. ‘Who are they all?’
‘Suspected traitors, to be arrested immediately in the event of war. The regional police are only allowed to know the names in their respective areas. There is one other master copy apart from that one, which the minister keeps. There’s also a longer list that Gribelin has.’
‘Longer?’
‘It contains one hundred thousand names.’
‘What a list!’ I exclaim. ‘It must be as thick as a bible! Who are they?’
‘Aliens, to be interned if hostilities break out. And that doesn’t include the Jews.’
‘You think if there’s a war the Jews should be interned?’
‘At the very least they should be obliged to register, and placed under curfew and travel restrictions.’ Shakily, Sandherr removes his spectacles and places them on the nightstand. He lies back on the pillow and closes his eyes. ‘My wife is very loyal to me, as you saw – more loyal than most wives would be in these circumstances. She thinks it’s a disgrace I’ve been placed on the retired list. But I tell her I’m happy to fade into the background. When I look around Paris and see the number of foreigners everywhere, and consider the degeneracy of every moral and artistic standard, I realise I no longer know my own city. This is why we lost in ’70 – the nation is no longer pure.’
I begin gathering up the letters and packing them into my briefcase. This sort of talk always bores me: old men complaining that the world is going to the dogs. It’s so banal. I am anxious to get away from this oppressive presence. But there is one other thing I need to ask. ‘You mention the Jews,’ I say. ‘General Boisdeffre is worried about a potential revival of interest in the Dreyfus case.’
‘General Boisdeffre,’ says Sandherr, as if stating a scientific fact, ‘is an old woman.’
‘He’s concerned at the lack of an obvious motive . . .’
‘Motive?’ mutters Sandherr. His head starts shaking on the pillow, whether in disbelief or from the effects of his condition I cannot tell. ‘What is he prattling on about? Motive? Dreyfus is a Jew, more German than French! Most of his family live in Germany! All his income was derived from Germany. How much more motive does the general require?’
‘Nevertheless, he’d like me to “feed the file”. Those were his words.’
‘The Dreyfus file is fat enough. Seven judges saw it and unanimously declared him guilty. Talk to Henry about it if you have any trouble.’
And with that Sandherr draws the blankets around his shoulders and rolls on to his side with his back to me. I wait for a minute or so. Eventually I thank him for his help and say goodbye. But he if he hears me, he makes no answer.
I stand on the pavement outside Sandherr’s apartment, mometarily dazzled by the daylight after the gloom of his sickroom. My briefcase stuffed with money and the names of traitors and spies feels heavy in my hand. As I cross the avenue du Trocadéro in search of a cab, I glance to my left to make sure I am not about to be run over, at which point I vaguely register an elegant apartment block with a double door, and the number 6 on a blue tile beside it. At first I think nothing of it, but then I come to a dead stop and look at it again: no. 6 avenue du Trocadéro. I recognise this address. I have seen it written down many times. This is where Dreyfus was living at the time of his arrest.
I glance back to the rue Léonce Reynaud. It is, of course, a coincidence, but still a singular one: that Dreyfus should have lived so close to his nemesis they could practically have seen one another from their respective front doors; at the very least they must have passed in the street often, walking to and from the War Ministry at the same times every day. I step to the edge of the pavement, tilt my head back and shield my eyes to examine the grand apartment building. Each tall window has a wrought-iron balcony, wide enough to sit on, looking out across the Seine – a much more opulent property than the Sandherrs’, tucked away in its narrow cobbled street.
My eye is caught by something at a first-floor window: the pale face of a young boy, like an invalid confined indoors, looking down at me; an adult comes to join him – a young woman with a face as white as his, framed by dark curls – his mother, perhaps. She stands behind him with her hands on his arms, and together they stare at me – a uniformed colonel watching them from the street – until she whispers in his ear and gently pulls him away, and they disappear.
4
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I describe the strange apparition to Major Henry. He frowns.
‘The first-floor window of number six? That must have been Dreyfus’s wife, and his little boy – what is he called? – Pierre, that’s it. And there’s a girl, Jeanne. Madame Dreyfus keeps the kids at home all day, so they don’t pick up stories about their father. She’s told them he’s on a special mission abroad.’
‘And they believe her?’
‘Why wouldn’t they? They’re only tiny.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Oh, we still keep an eye on them, don’t worry.’
‘How close an eye?’
‘We have an agent on their domestic staff. We follow them. We intercept their mail.’
‘Even six months after Dreyfus was convicted?’
‘Colonel Sandherr had a theory that Dreyfus might turn out to be part
of a spying syndicate. He thought that if we watched the family we might uncover leads to other traitors.’
‘But we haven’t?’
‘Not yet.’
I lounge back in my chair and study Henry. He is friendly-looking, apparently out of condition but still, I would guess, underneath the layer of fat, physically strong: the sort of fellow who would be stood a lot of drinks in a bar, and would know how to tell a good story when he was in the mood. We are about as dissimilar as it is possible for two men to be. ‘Did you know,’ I ask, ‘that Colonel Sandherr’s apartment is only about a hundred metres from the Dreyfus place?’
From time to time a sly look can come into Henry’s eyes. It is the only crack in his armour of bonhomie. He says, in an off-handed way, ‘Is it as close as that? I hadn’t realised.’
‘Yes. In fact it seems to me, looking at the location, they’re bound to have met occasionally, even if only casually in the street.’
‘That may well be. I do know the colonel tried to avoid him. He didn’t like him – thought he was always asking too many questions.’
I bet he didn’t like him, I think. The Jew with the vast apartment and a view of the river . . . I imagine Sandherr striding briskly towards the rue Saint-Dominique at nine o’clock one morning and the young captain attempting to fall in beside him and engage him in conversation. Dreyfus always seemed to me, when I dealt with him, to have something missing from his brain: some vital piece of social equipment which should have told him when he was boring people or that they didn’t wish to speak to him. But he was incapable of recognising his effect on others, while Sandherr, who could see a conspiracy in a pair of butterflies alighting on the same bloom, would have become increasingly suspicious of his inquisitive Jewish neighbour.
I open my desk drawer and take out the various medicines I discovered the previous day: a couple of tins and two small dark blue bottles. I show them to Henry. ‘Colonel Sandherr left these behind.’