An Officer and a Spy Read Free Page B

“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 standsoutside 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