Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

‘I hear he’s planning to run for the Senate. This trial is a great platform for him. If it weren’t for his political ambitions, their side would lack direction.’

‘If it weren’t for his political ambitions,’ I reply, ‘the whole thing might never have happened. He thought Dreyfus could be his ticket to the presidency.’

‘He still does.’

Mercier is scheduled to give his evidence on Saturday — the first day that the press and public will be allowed back into the courtroom since the opening session. His appearance is only slightly less eagerly awaited than that of Dreyfus himself. He arrives in court wearing the full undress uniform of a general — red tunic, black trousers, with a kepi of crimson and gold. On his breast glints the medal of a Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour. When he is called, he rises from his place among the military witnesses and walks to the front of the court carrying a black leather document case. He stands no more than two paces from where Dreyfus is sitting, but doesn’t once glance in his direction.

‘My deposition,’ he says, in his quiet, hoarse voice, ‘will have to be a trifle long.’

Jouaust says unctuously, ‘Usher, fetch a chair for the general.’

Mercier speaks for three hours, producing document after document from his black leather case — among them the ‘lowlife D’ letter, which he continues to insist refers to Dreyfus, and even the fabricated Guénée reports about a spy in the intelligence department, although he leaves out the name of the source, Val Carlos. He passes them up to Jouaust, who hands them along the line of judges. After a while, Labori leans back in his chair and cranes his head to look at me, as if to say, ‘What is this idiot doing?’ I am careful to maintain a neutral expression, but I think he is right: by introducing the evidence of the secret dossier into open court, Mercier is exposing a dangerous flank for Labori to attack in cross-examination.

On and on drones Mercier, like some paranoid, illiterate editorial in La Libre Parole seeing Jewish conspiracies everywhere. He alleges that thirty-five million francs have been raised to free Dreyfus in England and Germany. He quotes as if it is fact what Dreyfus is supposed to have said about the occupation of Alsace-Lorraine, and has always denied: ‘For us Jews it is not the same thing; where we are, our God is.’ He drags up the old myth of the ‘confession’ before the degradation. He spins the most fantastical explanation as to why he showed the secret dossier to the judges at the court martial, claiming that because of the Dreyfus controversy the country was ‘within two finger-breadths of war’ with Germany — so much so that he had ordered General Boisdeffre to be ready to dispatch the telegrams that would trigger a full mobilisation while he, Mercier, sat with President Casimir-Perier in the Élysée Palace until half past midnight waiting to see if the German emperor would back down.

Casimir-Perier, who is sitting with the witnesses, actually rises to challenge this lie, and when Jouaust won’t permit him to intervene, he shakes his head at such nonsense, which causes a sensation in the court.

Mercier takes no notice. It is the old paranoia about Germany, the lingering stench of defeatism after 1870. He presses on. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘at that moment, should we have desired war? Should I, as Minister of War, have desired for my country a war undertaken in these conditions? I did not hesitate to say “no”. On the other hand, was I to leave the court martial in ignorance of the charges against Dreyfus? These documents’ — he pats the case on the stand in front of him — ‘then formed what was called the secret dossier, and I regarded it as imperative that the judges should see them. Could I not have relied on the comparative secrecy of a trial behind closed doors? No, I have no confidence in closed doors! Sooner or later the press manages to get hold of all it wants and publishes it, despite the threats of the government. In these circumstances, I placed the secret documents in a sealed envelope and sent them to the president of the court martial.’

Dreyfus is sitting straight up in his chair now, looking at Mercier with intense astonishment, and something else, something beyond amazement — for the first time: burning anger.

Mercier does not see it because he is carefully not looking at him. ‘Let me add one last word,’ he says. ‘I have not reached my age without having had the sad experience of learning that all that is human is liable to error. But if I am weak-minded, as Monsieur Zola has alleged, I am at least an honest man and the son of an honest man. And if the slightest doubt had ever crossed my mind, I should be the first to declare it’ — and now finally he turns in his chair to look at Dreyfus — ‘and to say, before you all, to Captain Dreyfus, “I have blundered in good faith.”’

The cheap theatrical touch is too much for the prisoner to bear. Suddenly, and incredibly, without the least trace of stiffness in his legs, Dreyfus springs to his feet, clenches his fist and swings round at Mercier as if to strike him, roaring in a terrible voice, half cry and half sob: ‘That is what you should say!’

The whole court draws in its breath. The officials are too stunned to move. Only Mercier seems unaffected. He ignores the figure looming over him. ‘I would say to Captain Dreyfus,’ he repeats patiently, ‘“I have been honestly mistaken. I acknowledge it in good faith and will do all in my power to repair a terrible mistake.”’

Dreyfus is still on his feet, staring down at him, his arm raised. ‘It is your duty!’

There is a round of applause, mostly from the journalists; I join in.

Mercier smiles slightly, as if confronted by overemotional children, shakes his head, waits for the demonstration to die down. ‘No, it is not so. My conviction since 1894 has not undergone the slightest change. In fact it has actually been strengthened, not only by a thorough study of the secret dossier but by the pathetic case that has been made for Dreyfus’s innocence by his supporters, despite all the frantic efforts and the millions spent on his behalf. There. I have done.’

With that, Mercier closes his leather case, stands, bows to the judges, collects his kepi from the shelf in front of him, tucks the documents under his arm, and turns to walk out of the court, to a loud accompaniment of jeers. As he passes the press benches, one of the reporters — it is Georges Bourdon of Le Figaro — hisses at him, ‘Assassin!’

Mercier stops and points at him. ‘This fellow just called me an assassin!’

The army prosecutor rises. ‘Monsieur President, I demand that man be arrested for contempt.’

Jouaust calls to the sergeant-at-arms, ‘Take him into custody!’

As soldiers close in on Bourdon, Labori rises. ‘Monsieur President, excuse me, but I would like to question the witness.’

‘Of course, Maître Labori,’ replies Jouaust, coolly checking his watch, ‘but it is already after twelve, and tomorrow is Sunday. You will have your chance at six thirty on Monday morning. Until then the court is adjourned.’

Mercier’s testimony is held to have been a disaster — a grave disappointment to his own side, as he failed to provide the promised ‘proof’ that Dreyfus was guilty, and an opportunity for ours, in that Labori — generally considered to be the most aggressive cross-examiner at the Paris bar — will now have the chance to challenge him on the witness stand about the secret file. All he needs is sufficient ammunition, and on Sunday morning I walk to his lodgings to help him prepare. I have no qualms about breaking the last vestiges of my oath of confidentiality: if Mercier can talk about matters of national security, so can I.