Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

I have to walk back more than three kilometres and so I miss the immediate aftermath of the shooting. Edmond describes it all for me later: how, when he returned to Labori, the great advocate had somehow managed to drag his body on top of his briefcase in order to deter various individuals who had recognised him and were trying to steal his notes; how Marguerite Labori had rushed to the scene wearing a black and white summer dress, and had cradled her husband in her lap, trying to keep him cool with the aid of a small Japanese fan; how he had lain on his side with his arm around her, talking calmly, but scarcely shedding blood — an ominous sign as it often suggests the bleeding is internal; how a shutter had been fetched and four soldiers had heaved Labori on to it and carried the giant with difficulty back to his lodgings; how the doctor had examined him and announced that the bullet was lodged between the fifth and sixth ribs, millimetres from his spine, and the situation was grave — the patient was unable to move his leg; how Labori’s fellow advocate, Demange, had hurried over from the courtroom along with his assistants to find out what was happening; how Labori had grasped his colleague’s hand and said, ‘Old chap, I’m going to die perhaps, but Dreyfus is safe’; and how everyone had remarked on the way that Dreyfus in court had received the news of his lawyer’s shooting without the slightest change in his facial expression.

By the time I get back, which must be nearly an hour after the attack, the scene of the assault is oddly deserted, as if nothing has happened. At Labori’s lodgings his landlady tells me he has been taken to the house of Victor Basch, a Dreyfusard professor at the local university, who lives in the rue d’Antrain, the same street as Les Trois Marches. I walk up the hill to find a group of journalists in the road outside and a pair of gendarmes guarding the door. Inside, Labori has been laid out, unconscious by now, on a mattress in a downstairs room, and Marguerite is beside him, holding his hand. His face is deathly white. The doctor has summoned a surgeon, who has not yet arrived; his own interim opinion is that it is too dangerous to operate and that the bullet is best left where it is: the next twenty-four hours will be crucial in showing the extent of the damage.

There is a police inspector in the front parlour, questioning Edmond. I give him my description of the attacker, the chase and the location of the wood into which he ran. ‘Cesson Forest,’ says the inspector. ‘I’ll have it searched,’ and he goes out into the hall to speak to one of his men.

While he is out of the room, Edmond says, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Disgusted at my physical fitness; otherwise fine.’ I pound the arm of my chair in frustration. ‘If only I had been carrying my gun — I’d have brought him down easily.’

‘Was it Labori he was after, or you?’

I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Oh, Labori — I’m sure of it. They must have been desperate to stop him cross-examining Mercier. We’ll need to find a replacement for him when the trial resumes.’

Edmond looks stricken. ‘My God, didn’t you hear? Jouaust would only agree to an adjournment of forty-five minutes. Demange has had to go back to examine Mercier.’

‘But Demange isn’t prepared! He doesn’t know the questions to ask!’

It is a disaster. I hurry out of the house, past the journalists, down the slope towards the lycée. It is starting to rain. Huge, warm drops explode on the street stones, filling the air with a fragrance of moist dust. Several of the reporters set off after me. They trot alongside asking questions and somehow managing to write down my answers.

‘So the assassin is still at large?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Do you think he’ll be caught?’

‘He could be — whether he will be is another question.’

‘Do you think the army is behind it?’

‘I hope not.’

‘You don’t rule it out?’

‘Let me put it this way: I think it curious that in a town filled with five thousand police and soldiers, an assassin is able to gun down Dreyfus’s advocate and melt away without apparent difficulty.’

That is what they want to hear. At the entrance to the lycée they peel away and run off in the direction of the Bourse de Commerce to telegraph their stories.

Inside, Mercier is on the stand and I realise within a minute of taking my seat that Demange is making heavy work of questioning him. Demange is a decent, civilised man of nearly sixty with bloodhound eyes, who has faithfully represented his client for almost half a decade. But he isn’t prepared for this session, and even if he were, he lacks Labori’s forensic menace. He is, to put it bluntly, a windbag. His habit is to preface every question with a speech, giving Mercier plenty of time to think of his answer. Mercier brushes him aside with ease. Asked about the falsified Panizzardi telegram in the Ministry of War archive, he denies all knowledge of it; asked why he didn’t place the telegram in the secret dossier and show it to the judges, he says it is because the Foreign Ministry wouldn’t have liked it. After a few more minutes of this he is allowed to step down. As he walks back up the aisle, his glance flickers in my direction. He stops and bends down to speak to me, holds out his hand. He knows the entire courtroom is watching us. He says, with great solicitation, loud enough for half the audience to hear, ‘Monsieur Picquart, this is the most appalling news. How is Maître Labori’s condition?’

‘The bullet is still inside him, General. We will know better tomorrow.’

‘It is a profoundly shocking incident. Will you be sure to give Madame Labori my best wishes for her husband’s recovery?’

‘Certainly, General.’

His strange sea-green eyes hold mine, and for a fractional instant I glimpse the shadow, like a fin in the water, of his dull malevolence, and then he nods and moves away.

The following day is the Feast of the Assumption, a public holiday, and the court does not sit. Labori survives the night. His fever diminishes. There are hopes of a recovery. On Wednesday, Demange rises in court and pleads for an adjournment of two weeks, until either Labori is well enough to resume work or a new advocate can be fully briefed: Albert Clemenceau has agreed to take on the case. Jouaust turns the request down flat: the circumstances are unfortunate but the defence will have to get by as best it can.

The first part of the morning’s session is devoted to the details of Dreyfus’s confinement on Devil’s Island, and as the terrible harshness of the regime is described, even the prosecution witnesses — even Boisdeffre, even Gonse — have the decency to look embarrassed at the catalogue of torments inflicted in the name of justice. But when, at the end, Jouaust asks the accused if he has any comment to make, Dreyfus merely responds stiffy, ‘I am here to defend my honour and that of my children. I shall say nothing of the tortures I have been made to undergo.’ He prefers the army’s hatred to its pity. What seems to be coldness, I realise, is partly a determination not to be a victim; I respect him for it.

On Thursday, I am called to give evidence.

I walk to the front of the court, and climb the two steps to the raised platform, conscious of the silence that has fallen behind me in the crowded court. I feel no nervousness, just a desire to get it done. Before me is a railing with a shelf, on which witnesses can place their notes or military caps; beyond that the stage and the row of judges — two colonels, three majors and two captains — and to my left, sitting barely two metres away, Dreyfus. How curious it is to stand there close enough to shake his hand, and yet not to be able to speak to him! I try to forget his presence as I stare firmly ahead and swear to tell the complete truth.