Everything about him seemed straightforward. He had clear dark eyes which did not look away when he answered questions. There was nothing in his bearing which suggested other than peerless professionalism. He had not noticed a single sign of deviousness.
That night he was finding it difficult to sleep, troubled by the thought that the prisoner had not appeared guilty, but he dismissed these doubts with the hypothesis that Jews were inured in dissimulation since infancy.
All his life he had heard nothing good about Jews. They did not really think of themselves as French, did they? The only thing that mattered to them was money. Picquart was never given the opportunity to get to know any of them intimately enough to give him cause to review this established view. At the Lycée, there were a couple of them, but no one in his circle befriended them, and he had not wished to be different. Thinking man though he believed himself to be, he had never asked questions about the many damning remarks he continually heard about the money-worshipping “deicide” race - not that he was a churchgoer. On the contrary, he was at odds with his aged mother whose one regret in life was that she had never succeeded in inculcating Catholicism in her free-thinking Georges. The old dear had even secretly hoped that her son would have the vocation. Picquart’s only religion was the Army. He lived for it, and would willingly give his life in the defence of his country. He had cultivated a sound military démarche which resonated with the grandeur of the uniform of which he was inordinately proud. It did not escape him that when he came into a room many feminine hearts missed a beat. Besides the army his other God was the daughters of Eve.
Like his fellow officers, he read La Libre Parole, the virulent anti-semitic paper, which that well-known fanatic Edouard Drumont edited. Georges did not subscribe to his extreme views.
He distrusted Jews but did not think they were subhuman or needed to be deported en masse. Drumont was of the opinion that Jews should not be treated like Frenchmen and had proposed a lesser status for them. He stopped short of suggesting that they should all be lined up against a wall and shot, but admitted that if he saw one of them being kicked by anti-semite thugs, he was not going to risk his own life and limb in his defence. In the barracks, one often heard that even if Dreyfus had not written the bordereau, as a Jew he still belonged to the Ile du Diable. Picquart had heard his fellow officers question the principle that the Guillotine was not used on traitors in peacetime.
Deep down, Picquart was a bit ashamed of his antisemitic views. He was sincere in his belief that Jew or Gentile, no man should be condemned if innocent. He only read Drumont’s rantings to bolster up his less than whole-hearted dislike of Jews. When he visited Maman, he sometimes read La Croix, the almost official Catholic periodical that she subscribed to. It was hardly less hostile in its views although the style appeared more moderate on the surface. He remembered reading a column in the paper, written by a Jesuit priest, in which the man of the cloth had expressed a wish to possess a Jew-skin bed rug, so that he’d get the pleasure of treading on them first thing when he got up in the morning. Everybody he knew held unflattering views of the tribe. He really should read a neutral analysis on the Jewish question, perhaps something by his friend the novelist Zola, well-known for his liberal and humane views. Time was when they met fairly regularly, but lately they had both been terribly busy.
His fellow officers were always talking about Honour, and although he had never had any reason to think that as a group they were any more or less honourable than the average Frenchman, he saw himself as an honest and compassionate man. He liked carnal pleasures and conceded that he was something of an addict in that department. He only felt slightly guilty whenever he picked a lavandière or a modiste at the Promontoire in Le Perreux at its Thé Dansant on a Sunday afternoon to satisfy his lust. He did not force himself on anybody, but women were becoming emancipated, and the daring ones among them were not reluctant to indulge. However, with Pauline Monnier, it was an altogether different situation. She was married to a stolid bureaucrat who considered him his friend, and they had two daughters who worshipped Oncle Georges. Pauline would walk through fire for him. For her “two husbands”. He knew that it was an unequal relationship and felt guilty about both his lack of commitment, and his cuckolding of a friend. But he suspected that Monnier knew the score and did not feel betrayed. When all was said and done, Georges was not the marrying type. Un point c’est tout.
‘I have been very perplexed by Picquart’s role in the affair,’ said Sarah in her sing-song English, which she spoke after a fashion, turning French words or expressions into English when the need arose. ‘He might be contaminated by the antisemitism prevalent among the army, but he has always resembled to me as a straightforward and honest type.’
‘If he was as honest as you say-,’ I began, but the comédienne stopped me.
‘Whilst most officers would happily see all Jews expelled from France, or worse...many believe that we should all be lined up against a wall and shot...Georges’ prejudices are only superficial. Trust Sarah Bernhardt, she has antennes.’ Feelers. He had often told her that he entertained no animosity towards any member of her race.
‘But it must be avowed that you did not tell the woman you are about to fuck that you thought that her people were the last of the last. You don’t think my language is coarse, do you?’ I smiled and shook my head.
‘To my shame, the idea that I could have used my influence over him had never occurred to me, I am a right...what d’you call tête de linotte...’
‘Birdbrain.’
‘Perhaps now that I am in my thirties, I thought that I’d have no influence over him and did not want to risk a brush-off, I don’t know.’ I knew she was not in her thirties, but she was still stunning, and told her so. She opened wide her eyes and smiled her gratitude, a smile that got that invisible sapphic chord that I believe all women hide deep within their souls, strumming.
She confirmed what I had heard, to the effect that Picquart had been made a colonel, and had been given the charge of the Section de Statistiques, much to the infuriation of Colonel Henry, who had been expecting to succeed the ailing Colonel Sandherr to whom he had been second incommand for an eternity. Pic-Pic had bought himself a T-Model Ford to celebrate his promotion, cackled the Divine one.
‘So what do you suggest?’ she asked me suddenly. Before I could answer, she told me that on a Sunday afternoon, when Pauline Monnier, his mistress had to be mother and wife, Georges often went looking for adventures at the Guinguette on the bank of the Marne, at a place everybody called the Promontoire.
‘With any luck we’ll find him there, and very sure, I’ll let you tackle him. Quand même!’
Luck was on our side. Although he was in civvies, I immediately recognised the Colonel from Sarah’s description. He was indeed a perfect specimen of French manhood. The Guinguette itself was a quaint little pagoda-like pavilion, separated from the waters by a narrow public passage. The Promontoire was a floating pontoon firmly secured to the river bank with chains all round to prevent inebriated merrymakers falling overboard. Not that some were not resourceful enough to defeat the barriers. The music of the combination of accordéon and fiddle seemed a bit incongruous at first, but one’s ears soon became accustomed to it. Although my companion claimed that she was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, everybody recognised her the moment she appeared on the scene. I think that she would have been disappointed if they had not. Some young women rushed towards her in an attempt to touch her clothes, presumably so they could later boast to their friends that they had stroked the Divine Sarah. Seeing this, Monsieur Benoit the patron grabbed a bottle and a corkscrew and tapping frenetically demanded attention.
‘Mesdames et messieurs, Madame Bernhardt has the same right as everybody else to enjoy some peace and amusement. Let us please show our French délicatesse, by respecting her privacy.’ To my surprise this did the trick and we were left in peace. I had caught P
icquart looking at us, and the moment we had sat down (inside the pagoda) he made his way towards us. He curtseyed to Sarah and grabbed her hand elegantly, keeping it in his rather longer than what might be thought decorous, before bringing it to his lips. No doubt schooled in the art of seduction, all the time he gave me the impression that he was well aware of little me. He wasted no time in questioning my companion about me. He then bowed to me and walked with Sarah across the passage leading to the promontory, and I was able to watch them perform. They danced beautifully together, and I easily understood why many couples in the middle of their musette, slowly detached themselves from each other to watch this dashing pair instead. He walked Sarah back to the pavilion and invited me for the next dance, a Polka. He was a fine dancer but he made no effort to minimise the pressure on my arms or waist. I admit to the sexual thrill that this produced in me. It was obvious that he was there for my taking, and no doubt he thought the same of me. Sarah had told me that she had no claim on the dashing colonel, reminding me that our agenda should take priority over all other considerations anyway.
To my surprise, when I came back to my seat, Sarah winked at me, and whilst Georges went to get us tea and cakes, she informed me that we were both invited to his garçonnière in the rue de Rivoli. By now the sun had set.
‘You’re not a neophyte when it comes to the partouze are you?
‘No, of course not,’ I lied and laughed dismissively. I had never indulged in a threesome.
‘I never thought you were a eh...Sainte Nitouche,’ she added elegantly.
Having partaken of the refreshments, we decided to waste no time. The comédienne gave some instructions to Nérac, her cocher, who had been playing dominoes under a fig-tree, with other servants waiting for their masters and mistresses. We squeezed merrily in Picquart’s prized automobile, which he drove with showy skill. His bachelor pad was very small, and we had some difficulty fitting in. Without too much of a preamble, the three of us found ourselves in our host’s narrow lit à bateau. I had no difficulty pretending to be inured in all aspects of eroticism. This was an area that I was unschooled in, but I was a quick learner. Georges was indeed a past master at this sensual art, and he easily satisfied both of us. The reader must understand that this is a story dealing with my part in the Dreyfus Affair and allow me not to dwell on what happened between the sheets at any great length.
As I expected, shortly before midnight, La Bernhardt declared that as she had rehearsals in the morning, she needed a good night’s sleep. Georges opened his window, clapped his hands and we immediately heard a fiacre pulling over. The gallant soldier accompanied the lady downstairs to the cab, and when he came back up, we spent the rest of the night together, in each other’s arms, cuddling, kissing and talking. His mastery of the English language was not comparable to his bedroom skill, or topography, so we spoke French.
I am not a great believer in the circumbendibus. I buried my head in his shoulders, pulled his arm round my neck, and asked: ‘Georges, what made you decide that Dreyfus was guilty?’ I felt him stiffen and he pulled his arm away from me. ‘Come come, mon chou, the man’s safely rotting on his island,’ I said, ‘you’ve got nothing to fear. I just want to know.’ He sat up, and I caught the angry expression on his face in the moonlight coming in through the window.
‘I don’t think I want to talk about this. You have no right to ask.’ I was surprised at the sharpness of my riposte.
‘Is it because you have doubts?’ He was shaking, and said nothing for a while. I thought it more politic to keep quiet at this juncture, although I had no intention of letting go. After a long while, he took a deep breath, looked away and said, ‘Non, chérie, I am as sure of the man’s guilt as I have ever been of anything.’
‘What makes you so sure? Was the evidence water-tight?’
‘Tout à fait!’ he said aggressively. I was not getting anywhere. But he came to my rescue.
‘Those Youpins, Jews, they are steeped in treachery. When the fellow was taking my course in topography, you couldn’t have wished for a more courteous, more assiduous learner. All smiles, Oui mon commandant, Bien sûr mon commandant, what’s the word? Ingratiating. Typical of their race. But I read him like a book. If they live in France, they feel German, and if they live on the other side of the Rhine, then they feel French.’ I tut tutted and shook my head.
‘But mon cher Georges, you shock me. You seem to be saying that he was guilty because he was a Jew.’ He exploded.
‘How dare you? Who do you take me for?’ In the half light, I could not see his face, but by his breathing I knew that I had unsettled him. He remained silent for a while.
‘I admit to not being over-fond of those Yids,’ he said finally, ‘but I would never be party to sending an innocent man to prison-’
‘Or to that God-forsaken island.’ He jumped out of bed and his hands were shaking. He tried to speak but could not find the words.
‘I seem to have touched something there,’ I pursued relentlessly. He calmed down suddenly and took two steps towards me.
‘Non, Irene, we have handwriting experts at the Section, and they arrived at the conclusion that it was the Jew who had written the message.’
‘Unanimously?’ I challenged him. I knew that this was not the case. He did not answer immediately.
‘No,’ he said finally, ‘but graphology is not an exact science-’
‘But good enough to deprive a man of his liberty?’
‘He had a fair trial-’
‘In camera. Away from the gaze of the public or the press?’ I said forcefully. He started blinking and said nothing. Suddenly he asked, trying hard to hide a faint smile, ‘Who are you? What does this matter to you? Are you an agent from World Jewry?’ I burst out laughing. He peered at me for a while, obviously prey to the doubts that I had sown in his mind. Then he sat down on the bed close to me, caught my hand and whispered: ‘You know, for the first time I can see clearly that deep down I had never been entirely satisfied about the manner in which we reached our conclusion,’ adding emphatically, ‘not that I think the man is not guilty.’ I said nothing.
‘Still, I think I will need to look at the evidence with fresh eyes.’ I wanted no more. He was the Chief of the Section des Statistiques after all.
‘J’ai envie de toi mon Georges,’ I said, (I crave for you) and with a smile he wrapped me in his arms. At that point, I knew that the villainous Esterhazy’s goose was cooked.
The Affair of Sarah Bernhardt’s Skull
Once Colonel Picquart was convinced that Alfred Dreyfus had been framed, and made up his mind to pick up his cudgels to fight for the rehabilitation of the victim of the greatest miscarriage of justice France had ever known, I considered that my work in Paris was done. The seed had been sown, and in time the fruits were surely going to be harvested. The bravery of Pic Pic would be breathtaking. He would stand alone against the powerful military establishment. He was relieved of his function as Chief of the Bureau and sent to his certain death fighting rebels in Tunisia, when his intentions of re-opening the case became clear. Miraculously he would survive and be re-instated. He became the driving force behind the rehabilitation of Dreyfus. In time, Picquart would end up as War Minister under the presidency of Emile Loubet. Ironically, the expert horseman would be killed after being thrown off his mount.
On that scintillating spring morning, I told Sarah that I was ready to return to London. We had been staying at one of her many studios in the Allée du Bord de l’Eau, just the two of us. Her fiercely loyal Madame Guérard was left in the Avenue des Villiers apartment to look after her chameleons, her monkeys and parrots. We can fend for ourselves, she had assured the protesting duenna. The bond between us had obviously strengthened during my stay. I had come over to help with the Justice for Dreyfus Campaign, and it was clear now that the momentum was now with us. There was nothing more for me to do. We had greatly enjoyed each other’
s company, and I don’t just mean the two or three passionate nights we spent together, which we both knew committed neither of us. I cannot explain why, but we got on famously. Do we need an explanation?
‘You know Irene,’ she said, pronouncing my name Ee-reine, ‘as I have told you, lovers are two for a centime, but friendship is priceless. There are few things I hate so much as bidding goodbye to my friends.’ She had tried to talk me into moving to Paris permanently. I wouldn’t have to stay with her. She knew that she was the world’s most difficult woman. She would find me a comfortable studio not far from the Allée du Bord de l’Eau. I would not have her breathing on my neck, she promised, but we would be able to see each other, as often or as little as I wished.
Possessive she was not, she assured me. Yes, she admitted, she liked my company, for my wit and for my intelligence. Moi? She would relaunch my stage career, arrange parts for me. ‘We’ll work on your accent. I make the rules at my theatre,’ she said. The prospect was very tempting. My husband Algernon would probably agree to my leaving (for ours was a white wedding in view of his sexual orientation). With his fascination with all things French, I knew that he would happily cross the channel to come spend time with me. We were deeply attached to one another, were each other’s best friend. Still, London was my home. I was enjoying being Dai Lernière. I had so many dear friends there. The Club. I was tempted, but I had to decline her offer.
Sarah sent Monsieur Guérard to book my train tickets so I could set forth the morning after next. I was delighted when I woke up to the aroma of fried bacon. The usually indolent and spoilt actress had got out of bed early to make a full English breakfast for me. This was doubly appreciated in view of her great love of animals which made her dislike the eating of their flesh. She would often refer with tenderness to ‘ces mignons petits cochons roses.’
The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 2
