Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

Marguerite brings in tea and leaves us to it.

‘My father died eighteen months ago,’ says Christian, ‘at our home in Bordeaux, very unexpectedly. The week after he passed over, I received a letter of condolence from a man I’d never met before: my father’s cousin, Major Walsin Esterhazy, expressing his sympathy and asking if he could be of any practical assistance in terms of financial advice.’

I exchange glances with Labori; Christian notices. ‘Well, Monsieur Picquart, I can see that you know what must be coming! But please bear in mind that I had no experience in these matters and my mother is a most unworldly and religious person — two of my sisters are nuns, in fact. To tell the tale briefly, I wrote back to my chivalrous relative and explained that I had an inheritance of five thousand francs, and my mother would receive one hundred and seventy thousand through the sale of property, and that we would welcome advice in making sure it was safely invested. The major replied, offering to intercede with his intimate friend Edmond de Rothschild, and naturally we thought, “What could be safer than that?”’

He sips his tea, gathering his thoughts before continuing. ‘For some months all went well, and we would receive regular letters from the major enclosing cheques which he said were the dividends from the money the Rothschilds had invested on our behalf. And then last November he wrote to me asking me to come to Paris urgently. He said he was in trouble and needed my help. Naturally I came at once. I found him in a terrible state of anxiety. He said he was about to be denounced in public as a traitor, but that I was not to believe any of the stories. It was all a plot by the Jews, to put him in Dreyfus’s place, and that he could prove this because he was being helped by officers from the Ministry of War. He said it had become too dangerous for him to meet his principal contact, and therefore he asked if I would meet him on his behalf and relay messages between them.’

‘And who was this contact?’ I ask.

‘His name was Colonel du Paty de Clam.’

‘You met du Paty?’

‘Yes, often. Usually at night, in public places — parks, bridges, lavatories.’

‘Lavatories?’

‘Oh yes, although the Colonel would take care to be disguised, in dark glasses or a false beard.’

‘And what sort of messages did you relay between du Paty and your cousin?’

‘All sorts. Warnings of what might be about to appear in the newspapers. Advice on how to respond. I remember there was once an envelope containing a secret document from the ministry. Some messages concerned you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, for example there were two telegrams. They’ve stayed in my mind because they were very odd.’

‘Can you remember what they said?’

‘I remember one was signed “Blanche” — that was written by du Paty. The other — a foreign name. .’

‘Speranza?’

‘Speranza — that’s it! Mademoiselle Pays — she wrote that one out, on the colonel’s instructions, and took it to the post office in the rue Lafayette.’

‘Did they give a reason why they were doing this?’

‘To compromise you.’

‘And you helped because you believed your cousin was innocent?’

‘Absolutely — at least I did then.’

‘And now?’

Christian takes his time replying. He finishes his tea and replaces the cup and saucer on the table — slow and deliberate gestures that do not quite conceal the fact that he is quivering with emotion. ‘A few weeks ago, after my cousin stopped paying my mother her monthly money, I checked with the Rothschilds. There is no bank account. There never was. She is ruined. I believe that if a man could betray his own family in such a fashion, he could betray his country without any conscience. That is why I have come to you. He must be stopped.’

It is obvious what should be done with the information, once it has been verified: it must be passed to Bertulus, the dapper magistrate with the red carnation in his buttonhole, whose slow investigation into the forged telegrams is still proceeding. Because I am the one who laid the original complaint, it is agreed that I should write to him, alerting him to the crucial new witness. Christian agrees to testify, then changes his mind when his cousin discovers he has been to see Labori, and then changes it back again when it is pointed out that he can be subpoenaed in any case.

Esterhazy, obviously aware now that disaster is closing in on him, renews his demands that I should fight him in a duel. He lets it be known in the press that he is prowling the streets near to my apartment in the hopes of meeting me, carrying a heavy cane made of cherry wood and painted bright red with which he proposes to stove in my brains. He claims to be an expert in the art of savate , or kickboxing. Finally he sends me a letter and releases it to the newspapers:

In consequence of your refusal to fight, dictated solely by your fear of a serious meeting, I vainly looked for you for several days as you know, and you fled like the coward that you are. Tell me what day and where you will finally dare to find yourself face to face with me in order to receive the castigation which I have promised you. As for me I shall, for three days in succession, from tomorrow evening at 7 p.m., walk in the rues de Lisbonne and Naples.

I do not reply to him personally, as I have no desire to enter into direct correspondence with such a creature; instead I issue a statement of my own to the press:

I am surprised that M. Esterhazy has not met me if he is looking for me, as I go about quite openly. As for the threats contained in his letter, I am resolved if I fall into an ambush fully to use the right possessed by every citizen for his legitimate defence. But I shall not forget that it is my duty to respect Esterhazy’s life. The man belongs to the justice of the country, and I should be to blame if I took it upon myself to punish him.

Several weeks pass and I cease to keep my eyes open for him. But then one Sunday afternoon at the beginning of July, on the day before I am due to hand Christian’s evidence to Bertulus, I am walking along the avenue Bugeaud after lunch when I hear footsteps running up behind me. I turn to see Esterhazy’s red cane descending on my head. I duck away and put up an arm to shield my face so that the blow falls only on my shoulder. Esterhazy’s face is livid and contorted, his eyes bulging like organ stops. He is shouting insults — ‘Villain! Coward! Traitor!’ — so close that I can smell the absinthe on his breath. Fortunately I have a cane of my own. My first strike at his head knocks his bowler hat into the gutter. My second is a jab to his stomach that sends him sprawling after it. He rolls on his side, then drags himself up on to his hands and knees and crouches, winded, on the cobbles. Then, supporting himself with his ridiculous cherry-red cane, he starts to struggle to his feet. Several passers-by have stopped to watch what is going on. I grab him in a headlock and shout for someone to fetch the police. But the promeneurs , not surprisingly, have better things to do on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and at once everyone moves on, leaving me holding the traitor. He is strong and wiry, twisting back and forth, and I realise that either I will have to do him serious damage to quieten him down or else let him go. I release him, and step back warily.

‘Villain!’ he repeats. ‘Coward! Traitor!’ He staggers about trying to pick up his hat. He is very drunk.

‘You are going to prison,’ I tell him, ‘if not for treason, then for forgery and embezzlement. Now don’t come near me again, or next time I’ll deal with you more severely.’

My shoulder is stinging badly. I am relieved to walk away. He doesn’t try to follow, but I can hear him shouting after me — ‘Villain! Coward! Traitor! Jew! ’ — until I am out of sight.