Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

‘That kind of life can’t come cheap.’

‘He’s working every racket he can think of to keep it going. He’s even trying to join the board of a British company in London — which is a rum thing for a French officer to do, when you think about it.’

‘And where is his wife during all this?’

‘Either on her estate at Dommartin-la-Planchette in the Ardennes or at the apartment in Paris. He goes back to her after he’s finished with Marguerite.’

‘He seems to be a man to whom betrayal is second nature.’

‘I’d say so.’

‘What about the Germans? Any links there?’

‘I haven’t got anywhere on that yet.’

‘I wonder — perhaps we could follow him?’

‘We could,’ says Desvernine doubtfully, ‘but he’s a wary bird from what I’ve seen. He’d soon get wise to us.’

‘In that case, we can’t risk it. The last thing I need is to have a well-connected major complaining to the ministry that he’s being harassed.’

‘Our best bet would be to put a watch on the German Embassy, see if we can catch him there.’

‘I’d never get authorisation for that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would be too obvious. The ambassador would complain.’

‘Actually, I think I know a way we can do itted"›ht, humming the tune I have just been playing, slightly the worse for drink but much the better for company.

The following Thursday evening, at seven precisely, I sit in a corner of the cavernous yellow gloom of the platform café of the gare Saint-Lazare, sipping an Alsace beer. The place is packed; the double-hinged door swings back and forth with a squeak of springs. The roar of chat and movement inside and the whistles and shouts and percussive bursts of steam from the locomotives outside make it a perfect place not to be overheard. I have managed to save a table with two seats that gives me a clear view of the entrance. Once again, however, Desvernine surprises me by appearing at my back. He is carrying a bottle of mineral water, refuses my offer of a beer, and is pulling out his little black notebook even as he sinks into his place on the crimson banquette.

‘He’s quite a character, your Major Esterhazy, Colonel. Big debts all over Rouen and Paris: I have a list here for you.’

‘What does he spend the money on?’

‘Mostly gambling. There’s a place he goes to in the boulevard Poissonnière. It’s a sickness that’s hard to cure, as I know to my cost.’ He passes the list across the table. ‘He also has a mistress, a Mademoiselle Marguerite Pays, aged twenty-six, a registered prostitute in the Pigalle district, who goes by the name of “Four-Fingered Marguerite”.’

I can’t help laughing. ‘You’re not serious?’

Desvernine, the earnest former non-commissioned officer turned policeman, does not see the humour. ‘She’s from the Rouen area originally, daughter of a Calvados distiller, started work in a spinning factory when she was a kid, lost a finger in an accident and her job with it, moved to Paris, became an horizontale in the rue Victor-Masse, met Esterhazy last year either on the Paris-Rouen train or at the Moulin Rouge — there are different versions depending on which of the girls you speak to.’

‘So this affair is common knowledge?’

‘Absolutely. He’s even set her up in an apartment: 49, rue de Douai, near Montmartre. Visits her every evening when he’s in town. She’s furnished it, but the lease is in his name. The girls at the Moulin Rouge call him “The Benefactor”.’

‘That kind of life can’t come cheap.’

‘He’s working every racket he can think of to keep it going. He’s even trying to join the board of a British company in London — which is a rum thing for a French officer to do, when you think about it.’

‘And where is his wife during all this?’

‘Either on her estate at Dommartin-la-Planchette in the Ardennes or at the apartment in Paris. He goes back to her after he’s finished with Marguerite.’

‘He seems to be a man to whom betrayal is second nature.’

‘I’d say so.’

‘What about the Germans? Any links there?’

‘I haven’t got anywhere on that yet.’

‘I wonder — perhaps we could follow him?’

‘We could,’ says Desvernine doubtfully, ‘but he’s a wary bird from what I’ve seen. He’d soon get wise to us.’

‘In that case, we can’t risk it. The last th

At five o’clock the following afternoon, the Swiss expedition assembles in the lobby, kitted out in stout walking boots, high socks, sports jackets and knapsacks. The cover story is that they are four friends on a hiking holiday in the Baselbiet. Henry’s jacket is of an unfortunate broad-check design; his felt hat sprouts a feather. He is red-faced and grumpy in the heat. It makes one wonder why he has schemed so hard to join the party.

‘My dear Major Henry,’ I laugh, ‘this is taking disguise too far — you look like a Tyrolean innkeeper!’ Tomps and Vuillecard and even Lauth all join in the amusement, but Henry remains sullen. He likes teasing others but can’t abide to be teased himself. I say to Lauth, ‘Send me a telegram from Basel to let me know how the meeting goes, and what time you’ll be back — in coded terms, of course. Good luck, gentlemen. I must say, I wouldn’t let you into my country dressed like that, but then I’m not Swiss!’

I walk with them out of the door and see them into their cab. I wait until the landau is out of sight before setting off on foot towards my own rendezvous. I have plenty of time, enough to make the most of this perfect late summer afternoon, and so I stroll along the embankment, past the big construction site on the quai d’Orsay where a new railway terminus and grand hotel are rising beside the river. The first great international event of the twentieth century will be held here in Paris in less than four years’ time — the Universal Exhibition of 1900 — and the giant skeleton of the building swarms with workers. There is a definite energy in the air; there is even, dare one say it, optimism — not a quality that has been in wide supply in France over the past couple of decades. I amble along the Left Bank and on to the pont de Sully, where I stop and lean against the parapet, looking west along the Seine to Notre-Dame. I am still trying to work out how best to deal with the coming meeting.

Such are the vagaries of public life that General de Boisdeffre, firmly in Mercier’s shadow barely a year and a half ago, has now emerged as one of the most popular men in the country. Indeed, for the past three months it has scarcely been possible to open a newspaper without reading a story about him, whether as head of the French delegation at the coronation of the Tsar in Moscow, or relaying the President’s respects to the Tsarina while she vacationed on the Côte d’Azur, or watching the Grand Prix de Paris at Longchamps in the company of the Russian ambassador. Russia, Russia, Russia — that is all one hears, and Boisdeffre’s strategic alliance is considered the diplomatic triumph of the age, although privately I have reservations about fighting the Germans alongside an army of serfs.

Still, there is no denying Boisdeffre’s celebrity. His schedule has been printed in the newspapers, and when I arrive at the gare de Lyon, the first thing I encounter is a crowd of admirers waiting to catch a glimpse of their idol disembarking from the Vichy train. When at last it pulls in to the platform, several dozen run along its entire length trying to spot him. Eventually he emerges and pauses in the doorway for the photographers. He is in civilian dress but unmistakable nonetheless, his tall and erect figure made even loftier by a beautiful silk top hat. He doffs it politely to the applauding throng, then descends to the platform, followed by Pauffin de Saint Morel and a couple of other orderlies. He progresses slowly towards the ticket barrier, like a great stately battleship passing in a naval review, raising his hat and smiling faintly at the cries of ‘ Vive Boisdeffre! ’ and ‘ Vive l’armée! ’, until he sees me. His expression clouds briefly while he tries to remember why I am there, then he acknowledges my salute with a friendly nod. ‘Ride with me in my automobile, Picquart,’ he says, ‘although I’m afraid I’m only going as far as the hôtel de Sens, so it will have to be brief.’