An Officer and a Spy полностью

It starts like an ordinary letter: Paris, 15 October 1894. Having the most serious reasons, sir, for temporarily retaking possession of the documents I had passed on to you before taking off on manoeuvres. .

I say, ‘I don’t see any change halfway through. .’

‘Yes, there is, it’s obvious. Here.’ Gribelin leans across and taps the letter. He sounds exasperated. ‘Exactly here, where the colonel made him write the hydraulic brake of the 120 millimetre cannon — that was when he understood what was happening. You can see the way his writing suddenly gets larger and less regular.’

I look again. I still don’t see it. ‘Perhaps, if you say so. .’

‘Believe me, Colonel, we all noticed the change in his demeanour. His foot began to tremble. Colonel du Paty accused him of changing his style. Dreyfus denied it. When the dictation was finished, the colonel told him he was under arrest for treason.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘Superintendent Cochefort and his assistant seized him and searched him. Dreyfus continued to deny it. Colonel du Paty showed him the revolver and offered him the honourable course.’

‘What did Dreyfus say to that?’

‘He said, “Shoot me if you want to, but I am innocent!” He was like a character in a play. At that moment Colonel du Paty called out for Major Henry, who was hidden behind the screen, and Major Henry took him away to prison.’

I start to turn the pages of the file. To my astonishment, every sheet is a copy of the bordereau. I open it at the midpoint. I flick to the end. ‘My God,’ I murmur, ‘how many times did you make him write it out?’

‘Oh, a hundred or more. But that was over the course of several weeks. You’ll see they’re labelled: “Left hand”, “right hand”, “standing up”, “sitting down”, “lying down”. .’

‘You made him do this in his cell, presumably?’

‘Yes. Monsieur Bertillon, the handwriting expert from the Préfecture of Police, wanted as large a sample as possible so that he could demonstrate how he managed to disguise his writing. Colonel du Paty and I would visit Dreyfus at Cherche-Midi, usually around midnight, and interrogate him throughout the night. The colonel had the idea of surprising him while he was asleep — springing in and shining a powerful lantern in his face.’

‘And what was his mental state during all this?’

Gribelin looks shifty. ‘It was rather fragile, to be frank with you, Colonel. He was held in solitary confinement. He was not allowed any letters or visitors. He was often quite tearful, asking after his family and so forth. I remember he had some abrasions on his face.’ Gribelin touches his temple lightly. ‘Around here. The warders told us he used to hit his head against the wall.’

‘And he denied any involvement in espionage?’

‘Absolutely. It was quite a performance, Colonel. Whoever trained him taught him very well.’

I continue to leaf through the file. I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. . I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. . I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. . The writing deteriorates as the days pass. It is like a record from a madhouse. I start to feel my own head reeling. I close the file and push it back across the table.

‘That’s fascinating, Gribelin. Thank you for your time.’

‘Is there anything else I can assist you with, Colonel?’

‘I don’t think so, no. Not just at the moment.’

He cradles the file tenderly in his arms and takes it over to the filing cabinet. I pause at the door and look back at him. ‘Do you have any children, Monsieur Gribelin?’

‘No, Colonel.’

‘Are you married, even?’

‘No, Colonel. It never fitted with my work.’

‘I understand. I’m the same. Good night, then.’

‘Good night, Colonel.’

I trot down the stairs to the first floor, picking up speed as I go, past the corridor to my office, down the stairs to the ground floor, across the lobby and out into the sunshine, where I fill my lungs with reviving draughts of clean fresh air.