It is now a year and a half since I rid myself of Taxil, Diana and Dalla Piccola. If I was ill, I am recovered. Thanks to autohypnosis, or to Doctor Froïde. And yet I have been feeling anxious over recent months. If I were religious, I’d say it was guilt and that I was being tormented. But remorse for what, and tormented by whom?
The same evening on which I had the pleasure of hoaxing Taxil, I celebrated in happy tranquillity. I was sorry only that there was no one with whom I could share my victory, but I am quite used to my own company. I went to Brébant-Vachette, frequented by the diaspora of those who used to eat at Magny. With all I had earned from the Taxil debacle, I could afford anything. The maître recognized me, but more importantly I recognized him.
He held forth on the salade Francilion, created after the triumph of the play by Alexandre Dumas fils—good God, how old that makes me feel. The potatoes are cooked in stock, cut into slices and, while still warm, dressed with salt, pepper, olive oil and Orléans vinegar, plus half a glass of white wine (Château d’Yquem if possible) and chopped fines herbs. At the same time, some very large mussels are cooked in a court bouillon with a stick of celery. Everything is combined and lightly tossed, and covered with thin slices of truffle cooked in champagne. This should be done two hours ahead to allow the dish to cool to just the right temperature before serving.
Yet I am not at ease, and feel I must resume this diary to clarify my state of mind, as if I were still under Doctor Froïde’s care.
Disturbing things keep occurring and I live in a state of anxiety. In particular, I’m anxious to know who the Russian is down there in the sewer. He or they—perhaps there were two—was or were here, in these rooms on the 12th of April. Has one of them been back since? On several occasions I have been unable to find something—a small object, a pen, a bundle of papers—and then have found it in a place where I could have sworn I had never put it. Has someone been rummaging around, moving things, looking for something? What?
«Russian» can mean only Rachkovsky, but the man’s a sphinx. He’s been here twice, always asking me for what he describes as new, unpublished material inherited from my grandfather. And I have been playing for time, partly so that I can finish putting together a satisfactory dossier, partly to whet his appetite.
Last time he said he couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to know whether it was simply a question of price. «I’m not greedy,» I told him. «The truth is my grandfather left me some papers that recorded in full what was said that night in the Prague cemetery, but I don’t have them here with me. I have to leave Paris to get them.»
«Go then,» said Rachkovsky, and he made a vague comment about some trouble I might have from developments in the Dreyfus affair. What does he know about it?
The fact that Dreyfus had been packed off to Devil’s Island had done nothing to calm the controversy. A campaign had been launched by those who thought he was innocent—the Dreyfusards, as they were called—and graphologists have come forward to challenge Bertillon’s evidence.
It all began near the end of ’95, when Sandherr retired from service (apparently suffering from progressive paralysis, or something of the kind) and was replaced by someone called Picquart. This Picquart turned out to be a busybody and immediately began reexamining the Dreyfus affair, even though the case had been closed several months earlier. Then, last March, he found in one of the embassy wastepaper baskets (once again) the draft of a telegram to be sent by the German military attaché to Esterhazy. Nothing compromising, but why was this military attaché in contact with a French officer? Picquart investigated Esterhazy, looked for samples of his handwriting and realized that the major’s writing was similar to that of Dreyfus’s bordereau.
I came to hear about it when the news was leaked to La Libre Parole, and Drumont took exception to this meddler who wanted to reopen a case that had been so happily resolved.
«I understand he went to report the matter to Generals Boisdeffre and Gonse, who were fortunately not interested. Our generals are made of sterner stuff.»
Around November I met Esterhazy at the newspaper offices. He was very nervous and asked to speak with me. He came to my house accompanied by a Major Henry.
«It is rumored, Simonini, that the handwriting on the bordereau is mine,» Esterhazy said. «You copied it from one of Dreyfus’s letters or notes, didn’t you?»
«But of course. The sample had been given to me by Sandherr.»
«I know, but why didn’t Sandherr call me to that meeting as well? Was it to make sure I couldn’t check the sample of Dreyfus’s handwriting?»
«I did what I was told to do.»
«I know, I know. But it’s in your interest to help me sort out this mystery. If, for some obscure reason, you’ve been used as part of a plot, someone might think it’s a good idea to get rid of a dangerous witness like you. Which means you’re involved as well.»
I should never have allowed myself to get mixed up with the army. I wasn’t at all happy. Then Esterhazy explained what he wanted me to do. He gave me a sample of a letter from Panizzardi, the Italian military attaché, and the text of a letter I had to produce, addressed to the German military attaché, in which Panizzardi referred to Dreyfus’s collaboration.
«Major Henry,» he explained, «will be responsible for finding this document and passing it on to General Gonse.»
I did my job, Esterhazy paid me a thousand francs, and then I don’t know what happened, but toward the end of ’96 Picquart was transferred to the Fourth Fusiliers in Tunisia.
However, at the same time that I was busy getting rid of Taxil, it seems that Picquart had managed to pull a few strings, and things became more complicated. It was, of course, unofficial news that somehow reached the press, but the Dreyfusard newspapers (which were few) took it as being certain, while the anti-Dreyfusard press talked of defamation. Some telegrams appeared, addressed to Picquart, from which it seemed he was the author of the infamous telegram from the Germans to Esterhazy.
As far as I could understand, Esterhazy and Henry were behind it. It was a nice game of tit for tat, where there was no need to invent accusations because all you had to do was throw back at your opponent what he’d sent to you. Heavens above, espionage and counterespionage are far too serious to be left in the hands of soldiers. Professionals like Lagrange and Hébuterne would never have made such a mess, but what can you expect from people who are good enough for the intelligence service one day and for the Fourth Fusiliers in Tunisia the next, or who pass from the papal Zouaves to the Foreign Legion?
Most of all, this last move was of little use, and an investigation of Esterhazy was opened. What if, to put himself above suspicion, he were to say it was I who had written the bordereau?
I slept badly for a year. Every night I heard noises in the house. I was tempted to go down to the shop, but was worried I might find a Russian there.
In January of this year there was a trial behind closed doors, and Esterhazy was acquitted of all charges. Picquart was sentenced to sixty days’ imprisonment. But the Dreyfusards are not giving up. A vulgar writer by the name of Zola has published an inflammatory article («J’accuse!»), and a group of scribblers and supposed scientists have joined the campaign, demanding a review of the case. Who are these people—Proust, France, Sorel, Monet, Renard, Durkheim? Not the kind who frequent Salon Adam. Proust, I’m told, is a twenty-five-year-old pederast writer whose works are fortunately unpublished, and Monet is a dauber—I’ve seen one or two of his paintings, which look at the world through gummy eyes. What have a writer and a painter to do with the decisions of a military tribunal? Poor France, as Drumont would say. If only these «intellectuals»—as Clemenceau, that defender of lost causes, calls them—kept their minds on the few things they knew something about.
Zola was put on trial and, by good fortune, sentenced to a year’s imprisonment. Justice still exists in France, says Drumont, who in May was elected as deputy for Algiers, ensuring that there will be a good anti-Semitic group in parliament, which will help to defend the claims of the anti-Dreyfusards.
Everything seemed to be going in the right direction. Picquart had been sentenced to eight months in prison in July, Zola had fled to London, and I thought that no one would now reopen the case. Then a Captain Cuignet appeared, and demonstrated that Panizzardi’s letter accusing Dreyfus was a forgery. How could he make such a claim when I had done the job so perfectly? In any event, the high command took it seriously and, since the letter had been found and passed on by Major Henry, people began to talk about the «Henry forgery.» When put under pressure in late August, Henry admitted everything. He was taken to the prison at Mont-Valérien and slit his throat with a razor the
