I saw very little of Dreyfus throughout that summer and autumn of 1894 — he was often away from Paris — although we would nod civilly enough to one another if we happened to pass in the corridor. From the reports of his section chiefs I knew that he was regarded as hard-working and intelligent but uncongenial, a loner. Some also spoke of him as cold and arrogant to his equals and obsequious to his superiors. During a General Staff visit to Charmes he monopolised General Boisdeffre over dinner and took him off for an hour to smoke cigars and discuss improvements in artillery, much to the annoyance of the more senior officers present. Nor did he make any effort to disguise his wealth. He had a wine cellar built in his apartment, employed three or four servants, kept horses in livery, collected pictures and books, hunted regularly and bought a Hamerless shotgun from Guinard amp; Cie on the avenue de l’Opéra for five hundred and fifty francs — the equivalent of two months’ army salary.
There was something almost heroic in his refusal to play the part of the grateful outsider. But looking back, one can see it was a foolish way to behave, especially in that climate.
Operation Benefactor languishes in the August heat. There are no fresh sightings of Esterhazy in the rue de Lille. Schwartzkoppen seems to be away on leave. The Germans’ apartment is shuttered up for the summer. I write to Boisdeffre on his estate in Normandy asking for permission to obtain a sample of Esterhazy’s handwriting, in case it matches any scrap of evidence retrieved by Agent Auguste. My request is turned down on the grounds that this would represent ‘a provocation’. If Esterhazy has to be removed from the army, Boisdeffre reiterates that he wants it done quietly, without a scandal. I raise it with the Minister of War. He is sympathetic, but on this issue he refuses to overrule the Chief of the General Staff.
Meanwhile the atmosphere inside the Statistical Section is as noxious as the drains. Several times when I step out of my office I hear doors close along the corridor. The whispering starts up again. On the fifteenth there is a small party in the waiting room to say goodbye to Bachir, who is retiring as concierge, and to welcome his successor, Capiaux. I say a few words of thanks: ‘The building will not be the same without the presence of our old comrade, Bachir,’ to which Henry remarks into his glass, just loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘Well why did you get rid of him then?’ Afterwards the others all go off to continue drinking at the Taverne Royale, a favourite bar nearby. I am not asked to go with them. Sitting alone at my desk with a bottle of cognac, I remember Henry’s remark on his return from Basel:
On the 20th, Henry departs on a month’s leave to his family’s home on the Marne. Normally before he goes away he puts his head round my door to say goodbye. On this occasion, he slips away without a word. In his absence the building sinks even further into the August torpor.
And then, on the 27th, a Thursday afternoon, I receive a message from Billot’s orderly, Captain Calmon-Maison, asking if he might have a word with me as soon as is convenient. I have cleared my in-tray so I decide I might as well walk over right away: through the garden and up the stairs and into the office of the minister’s secretariat. The windows are open. The room is light and airy. Three or four young officers are working together congenially. I feel a stab of envy: how much better to be here than across the street in my dank and rancorous warren! Calmon-Maison says, ‘I have something here that General Billot thinks you ought to see.’ He goes to a filing cabinet and takes out a letter. ‘It came in yesterday. It’s from Major Esterhazy.’
The letter is handwritten, addressed to Calmon-Maison, dated Paris two days earlier. It is a request to be transferred to the General Staff. The implications of this hit me with a force that is almost physical.
Calmon-Maison says, ‘My colleague Captain Thévenet has received a similar appeal.’
‘May I see it?’
