Chapter VIII: Part 8

During the last months I wrote you long letters, in which I poured out my over-burdened heart. What would you? For three years I have seen myself the toy of events to which I am a stranger, having never deviated from the absolute rule of conduct that I had imposed upon myself, that my conscience as a loyal soldier devoted to his country had imposed upon me. Even in spite of yourself the bitterness mounts from the heart to the lips; anger sometimes takes you by the throat and you cry out in pain.

Formerly I swore never to speak of myself, to close my eyes to everything, because for me, as for you, for us all, there can be but one supreme consolation--that of truth, of unshrouded light.

But while my too long sufferings, the appalling situation, the climate, which by its own power alone makes the brain burn--while all this combined has not made me forget a single one of my duties, it has ended by leaving me in a state of cerebral and nervous erethismus that is terrible. I understand thoroughly, too, my good darling, that you cannot give me details. In affairs like this, where grave interests are at stake, silence is necessary, obligatory.

I chatter on to you, though I have nothing to tell you; but all this does me good, it rests my heart and relaxes the tension of my nerves. Truly, my heart often is shrivelled with poignant grief when I think of you, of our children; and then I ask myself what I can have committed upon this earth that those whom I love the most, those for whom I would give my blood, drop by drop, should be tried by such awful agony. But even when the too full cup overflows, it is from the dear thought of you, from the thought of the children--the thought that makes all my being vibrate and tremble, that exalts it to its greatest heights--from this thought that I draw the power to rise from the depths of despair, to send out the thrilling cry of a man who has begged for so long for himself, for those he loves, only for justice and truth--nothing but truth.

I have summed up my resolution clearly, and I know that that determination is your own, that of all of you, and that nothing has ever been able to overcome it.

It is this feeling, associated with all my duties, that has made me live; it is this feeling also that has made me ask once more for you, for you all, every co-operation, a more powerful effort than ever on the part of all in a simple work of justice and of reparation, by rising above all question of individuals, above all passions.

May I still tell you of all my affection? It is needless, is it not? for you know it; but what I wish to tell you again is this, that the other day I re-read all your letters in order that I might pass some of the too long minutes near a loving heart, and an immense sentiment of wonder arose in me for your dignity and your courage. If the trial found in great misfortunes is the touchstone of noble souls, then, oh, my darling, yours is one of the most beautiful and the most noble souls of which it is possible to dream.

You must thank M---- for his few words; all that I can tell him is in your heart as it is in mine.

Then, my darling, always and again, Courage! As I told you before my departure from France a long time ago, alas! a very long time, our own selves should be entirely secondary; our children are the future; there must remain no spot upon their name; no cloud must hover, not even the very smallest, over their dear heads. This thought should dominate all else.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength, as also our dear and adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_24 November, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

All these months I have written you many long letters, in which my oppressed heart has unburdened itself of all our too long-endured common sorrow. It is impossible to disengage the mind from its _ego_ at all times; to rise above the sufferings of every instant. It is impossible that all my being should not quiver, should not cry aloud with anguish at the thought of all you suffer, at the thought of our dear children; and if when I fall I again and again raise myself up, it is to send forth the thrilling appeal for you, for them.

Though my body, my brain, my heart, everything, is worn out, my soul remains intangible, ever ardent, its determination unshaken and strong in the right of every human being to have justice and truth for himself, for those who belong to him.

And the duty of every one is to co-operate in every effort, by every means, toward this single object--justice and reparation; to put an end at last to this appalling and too long-continued martyrdom of so many human creatures.

I wish, therefore, my good darling, that our terrible tortures may soon be ended.

I have received during the month letters from your dear parents from all our family. I have answered them.

My best kisses to all.

And for you, for our children, all the tenderness of my heart, all my love, all my thoughts, that never leave you for one single instant.

A thousand kisses more.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_6 December, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I cannot let the mail leave without writing to you, to repeat to you always, it is true, the same words.

As I have told you, for long months I have lived only by an incredible tension of the nerves, of the will; and it is when I fall under the weight of my sufferings that the thought of you, that of the children, lifts me up quivering with grief, with determination, before that which we hold most precious in this world--our honor, the honor of our children, of us all. And then I send out again the thrilling cries for help, the cries of a man who from the first day of this sad tragedy has begged for nothing but the truth.

Here, then, is a work of justice far above all passions, a duty that devolves upon all, and it must be accomplished. I wish, indeed, for both our sakes, my good darling, that it may be accomplished at last; that our terrible and too long torment may soon be ended.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all the power of my affection, and our dear, our adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

My best kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

* * * * *

_25 December, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

More often than ever I have terrible moments, when my reason totters; this is why I am come to talk to you now, not to speak of myself, but to give you still, as always, counsels as to what I believe you ought to do.

In a situation as tragic as ours, when the question in point is the honor of a family, the life of our children, you must always, my good darling, rise still higher above all; you must put aside from the question all thought of individuals, all irritating subjects, and you must call to your side every aid, every kind heart.

I know better than any one that at times this will be difficult; it is impossible not to feel our wounds; but we must do it. It is not a question of humiliating ourselves nor abasing ourselves; but, on the other hand, we must not throw away our energy in useless outcries; cries are not reasons.

We must simply stand fast, and will it that our right shall be yielded to us, the right of innocence. You must assert your will, energetically, without weakness, with dignity; you must act from your heart of a wife and mother, a heart horribly torn and wounded.

I have suffered too much. I have too often been stunned, felled by their sledge-hammers, to have been able to act in this way myself, although it is the only sane and reasonable line of conduct. And it is just because often I do not know where I am, because the hours weigh so heavily upon me, that I long to pour out my heart to you.

All through this month I have again made numerous and passionate appeals for you, for our children. I want to wish that this appalling martyrdom may have an end; I want to wish that we may come out of this terrible nightmare, in which we have lived so long; but that which I cannot doubt, that which I have not the right to doubt, is that all co-operation is to be given you; that this work of justice and of reparation is to be pursued and accomplished. And now to sum it all up, my darling, what I would tell you in a supreme effort, by which I set my own self totally aside, is that you must sustain your rights energetically, for it is appalling to see so many human beings suffer thus; for we must think of our unhappy children, who are growing up; but we must not bring any passion, we must not allow any irritating questions to enter in, any question of individuals.

I will not speak to you again of my love, when your dear image, that of our children, rises before my eyes, and perhaps there is not a single minute when this vision is not with me; then I feel my heart beat as if to burst, as if it were full of tears repressed.

And a supreme cry rises from my heart in all the minutes of my long days, of my long, sleepless nights; if it is a supreme cry that will be lifted in my last hour, it is also an appeal to all to make one great effort for justice and for truth; that all this ardent and devoted aid may be given you, this aid that all men of heart and honor owe to you.

This appeal, as I have told you, I recently made again, and I cannot doubt that it will be heard, so I will say again to you, Courage!

In these last lines I would now put all my heart, all that it enfolds of love for you, for our children, for all; I would tell you that in my worst moments of anguish it is these thoughts that have saved me, that have made me escape from the tomb for which I had longed, that have made me try once more to do my duty.

I embrace you with all my heart. I want to press you in my arms, as I love you, to ask you to embrace most tenderly our dear and adored children, in a long embrace, and your dear parents, all my dear brothers and sisters.

A thousand kisses more.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_6 January, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have not yet received your letters of October nor your letters of November. The last news I had of you dates back, therefore, to September.

I shall speak to you less than ever of myself, less than ever of our sufferings. No human word can lessen them. I wrote to you some days ago; I was in such a state that I do not remember one word that I said to you.

But if I am totally worn out, body and mind, my soul is always ardent, and I want to come into your presence to speak words that ought to sustain your steadfast courage. I have put our fate, the fate of our children, the fate of innocent creatures who, for more than three years, have been struggling with unbelievable trials, into the hands of the President of the Republic, into the hands of the Minister of War, asking for an end at last to our appalling martyrdom; I have put the defence of our rights into the hands of the Minister of War, whose duty it is to have repaired, at last, this long-enduring and appalling error.

I am waiting impatiently. I want to wish that I may yet have a minute of happiness upon this earth; but what I have no right to doubt for one instant is that justice will be done, that justice will be done you and our children, that you will have your day of supreme happiness.

I repeat to you, then, with all the strength of my soul, “Courage, courage!” I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all the power of my affection, as I embrace our dear and adored children.

ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all I love.

* * * * *

_9 January, 1898._

After long and terrible waiting I have just received, altogether, the mails of October and November.

I need not tell you what indescribable emotion seizes me when I read the letters of those whom I love so much, of those for whom I would give my blood, drop by drop; of those for whose sake I live.

Had I thought, darling, of myself alone, long ago should I have been in my grave; it is the thought of you, the thought of our children, that sustains me, that lifts me up when I am bowed under the weight of so much suffering. I told you in my last letters all that I have done, of all the appeals that I have again made for you and for our children.

If the light that we have awaited for more than three years is not shown now, it will shine forth in a future that we know not.

As I told you in one of my letters, our children are growing; their situation, that of us all, is terrible; the situation I am supporting only by supreme effort is becoming absolutely impossible to bear. That is why I have placed our lot, our children’s lot, in the hands of the Minister of War, asking that at last an end may be made of our appalling martyrdom. That is why I have again asked the Minister of War to restore to us our honor.

I await his answer with the greatest impatience, and I am hoping that this appalling torment may have at last an end.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all the power of my love, with all my tenderness, as also I embrace our adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

* * * * *

_25 January, 1898._

My dear and good Lucie:

I shall not write to you at length to-day; I suffer too deeply for you and for our children; I feel too keenly all your appalling anguish, your frightful martyrdom. At the very thought of it my heart beats heavily, as if weighed down by unshed tears. No human word could lessen the horror of your anguish.

I told you in my last letters what I had done; during the last few days I have renewed my appeals; the light we have so long waited for is not yet seen; it will be seen only in a future that no one can foretell. The situation is terrible, terrible for you, for the children, for all. As for me, it is needless for me to tell you what it is.

I have asked the President of the Republic, the Minister of War, and General de Boisdeffre for my rehabilitation, for a new trial. I have put the fate of so many innocent victims, the fate of our children, into their hands; I have entrusted the future of our children to General de Boisdeffre. I await their answer with feverish impatience, with all that remains to me of my strength.

I want to hope that there may yet be one minute of happiness for me upon this earth; but what I have not the right to doubt is that justice shall be done, that justice shall be done to you at least--to you, to our children. I say to you, then, “Courage and Confidence!”

I embrace you as I love you, with all that my heart contains of deep affection for you, for our adored children, for your dear parents, for all our friends.

A thousand kisses more from your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_26 January, 1898._

My dear Lucie:

In the last letters that I wrote to you I told you what I had done; to whom I had entrusted our fate, the fate of our children; what appeals I had sent forth. It is needless to tell you with what anxiety I am awaiting an answer; how heavy the moments have become to me. But my thoughts, day and night, yearn so toward you, toward our children, that I want to write to you again to give you the counsels which I ought to give you.

I have read and re-read all of your letters, and the letters from home, and I believe that for a long time we have been living in a misconception of facts; this misunderstanding comes from different causes (your letters were often enigmas to me)--the absolute secrecy in which I live, the state of my brain, the blows that have been struck me without my understanding them, acts of stupidity that may also have been committed.

But this is the situation as I understand it, and I think that I am not far from the truth. I believe that General de Boisdeffre has never been averse to rendering us justice. We, deeply wounded, ask him to give us light upon this mystery. It has been no more in his power to give us light than it was in ours to procure it for ourselves; it will shine out in a future that no one can foresee.

Some minds have probably been soured; it may be that awkwardnesses have been committed, I cannot tell; all this has envenomed a situation already so atrocious. We must go back to the beginning, and raise ourselves above all our sufferings in order that we may look clearly into our situation.

Well, I, who have been for more than three years the greatest victim, the victim of everything and of every one; I who am here, almost dying of agony, I have just given you the counsels of prudence, of calmness, that I think I ought to give you, oh, without abandoning any of my rights, without weakness, but also without boasting.

As I have told you, it has not been in the power of General de Boisdeffre any more than it has been in your power to throw light upon this mystery; it will shine in a future that no one can foresee.

Therefore I have simply asked General de Boisdeffre for my rehabilitation; to put an end to our appalling martyrdom, for it is inadmissible that you should undergo such torture, that our children should grow up dishonored by a crime that I could never have committed.

I await the answer to my letters with all the strength that is left to me. I count the hours, I almost count the minutes.

I do not know if his answer will reach me soon; I know still less how I keep alive, so extreme is my cerebral and nervous exhaustion; but if I should succumb before that time comes, if I should faint under the atrocious burden that I have borne so long, I leave it to you, as your absolute duty, to go yourself to General de Boisdeffre, and, after the letters which I wrote to him, the desire which, I am sure of it, is in the bottom of his heart to grant us rehabilitation, when you (_sic_) will have realized that the discovery of the truth is a task that will take a long time, that it is impossible to foresee when it will be accomplished, I have no doubt that he will grant you, immediately, a new trial; that he will at once put an end to a situation as atrocious for you as it is for our children. I hope, too, that over my grave he will bear witness not only to the loyalty of my past conduct, but to the absolute loyalty of my conduct for the last three years, when, under all my sufferings, under all my tortures, I have never forgotten what I have been--a soldier, loyal and devoted to his country. I have accepted all, I have undergone all with closed lips. I do not boast of it, for I have done only my duty, nothing but my duty.

I leave you with regret, for my thoughts are with you, with our children, night and day; for this thought of you is all that keeps me yet alive, and I should like to come and talk like this at every instant of my long days and my long, sleepless nights.

I can only repeat this wish: it is that all this sorrow may have at last an end, that this infernal torture of all the minutes may soon be over; but if you do as I have told you, as it is your duty to do, since I command it, I have no doubt that you shall come to see the end of your appalling martyrdom, the martyrdom of our children.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all the power of my love; I embrace also our dear and adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all.

* * * * *

_4 February, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have nothing to add to the numerous letters that I have written to you during the past two months; all this medley of confusion may be summed up in a few words: I have appealed to the high justice of the President of the Republic, to that of the Government, in asking for a new trial, for the life of our children, for the end of this appalling martyrdom.

I have made an appeal to the loyalty of the men who caused me to be condemned, to bring about this new trial. I am waiting feverishly, but with confidence, to learn that at last our terrible suffering is to have an end.

I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our friends.

* * * * *

_7 February, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of December, and my heart is breaking; it is rent by the consciousness of so much unmerited suffering. I have told you that the thought of you, of the children, always raises me up, quivering with anguish, with a supreme determination, from the thought of all that we hold most precious in the world--our honor, that of our children--to utter this cry of appeal, that grows more and more thrilling--the cry of a man who asks nothing but justice for himself and those he loves, and who has the right to ask it.

For the last three months, in fever and in delirium, suffering martyrdom night and day for you, for our children, I have addressed appeal on appeal to the Chief of the State, to the Government, to those who caused me to be condemned, to the end that I may obtain justice after all my torment, an end to our terrible martyrdom; and I have not been answered.

To-day I am reiterating my former appeals to the Chief of the State and to the Government, with still more energy, if that could be; for you must be no longer subjected to such a martyrdom; our children must not grow up dishonored; I can no longer agonize in a black hole for an abominable crime that I did not commit. And now I am waiting; I expect each day to hear that the light of truth is to shine for us at last.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all the power of my love; also our dear and adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand, thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

* * * * *

_25 February, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

Our thoughts are in harmony; my thought does not leave you for one single instant day or night; and should I listen only to my heart I should write to you each moment, every hour.

If you are the echo of my sufferings, I am the echo of yours, of the sufferings of you all. I doubt that human beings have ever suffered more. The thought of you, of the children, and my longing always outstretched toward you, toward them, still always give me the strength to compress my bursting brain, to restrain my heart.

I have written you numerous letters in these last months; to add anything to these letters would be superfluous. I have told you all the appeals I have addressed since November last--appeals in which I ask for my rehabilitation, for justice for so many innocent victims.

In one of my last letters I told you that I had just addressed a last appeal to the Government, an appeal more earnest, more energetic than any that I had made before. So I am waiting, expecting day by day to learn that this rehabilitation has taken place, that our tortures, as appalling as they were unmerited, are to end; that the light of justice shines at last. I wish, therefore, to-day only to embrace you with all my strength, with all my heart, as I love you; so, also, I embrace our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand, thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our dear relations, to all our dear brothers and sisters.

* * * * *

_5 March, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of January. Your letters are always wonderfully equal in spirit, in feeling, and in elevation of soul. I shall not add anything to the long letters I have written to you during the last three months; the last were perhaps nervous, overflowing with impatience, with pain, with suffering; but all this is too appalling, and there have been responsibilities to establish.

I will not go over and over my thoughts indefinitely. After explaining the details of a situation as tragic as it is undeserved, a situation that has been so long borne by so many victims, I ask and ask again my rehabilitation of the Government, and now I am expecting each day to learn that the light of justice is at last to shine for us.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all the power of my love, as I embrace also our dear children.

My fondest love to all our friends.

ALFRED.

APPENDIX

ADDITIONAL LETTERS

A.--1898-99

On September 24, 1898, Dreyfus addressed a piteous letter to the Governor of French Guiana, saying that all his appeals had met with no response. It was at this period that he lost all hope. In early November he received a letter from his wife which, although giving not the slightest intimation of the stirring events in Paris, was in cheerful tone. He thought that it referred to his letter of September 24, and at once became encouraged. After more than two months’ silence he wrote to her again. He spoke of the good news contained in his wife’s letter, repeated that he was waiting the answer to his petition with confidence, and then he said:

“So when you receive this letter everything will, I think, be
finished, and your happiness will be complete. But in these days of
relief and felicity which will follow so many days of pain and
suffering, I would that my thought, my heart, all that is living in
me, which has not left you during those four terrible years, may
again reach you, to add, if possible, to your joy until we can at
least resume that happy and quiet life to which your natural
qualities entitled you, and which you now deserved more than ever
owing to the greatness of your soul, to the nobility of your
character, to all the most beautiful qualities which a woman can
display under such tragic circumstances--qualities which suffering
has only developed, and which have proved to me that there was no
ideal here below to which a woman’s soul could not rise, and which
she could not surpass. It is in our mutual affection, in that of
our dear and beloved children, in the satisfaction of our
consciences, and in the feeling that we have done our duty, that we
shall forget our long trials. I do not insist. Such emotion is
great. I tremble at it; but it is lovely, as it elevates. So until
the decisive news of my rehabilitation arrives I am going to live
more than ever in thought with you, with all, sharing your common
joy.”

* * * * *

At length Dreyfus was officially informed of the first decision of the Court of Cassation. Writing to his wife on November 25, he said:

“My dear Lucie:

“In the middle of the month I was told that the petition for the
revision of my judgment had been declared acceptable by the Court
of Cassation, and was invited to produce my means of defence. I
took the necessary measures immediately. My requests were at once
transmitted to Paris, and you must have been informed of this some
days ago. Events must therefore be moving rapidly. In thought I am
night and day, as always, with you, with our children, with all,
sharing our joy at seeing the end of this fearful drama approaching
rapidly. Words become powerless to describe such deep emotions....
According to information which I sent you in the last mail, all
will be over in the course of December. Therefore, when these lines
reach you I shall be almost on the point of starting for France.”

Here are touching passages from his letter of December 26. After telling his “_chère et bonne_ Lucie”--he almost invariably addresses her thus--that, with the exception of the telegram, to which he at once replied, he had not heard from her for two months until he got a letter a few days ago, he went on to explain that if he had for a moment closed his correspondence, this was because he was awaiting the reply to his petition for the revision of his judgment, and should only have repeated himself:

“If my voice had ceased to make itself heard, this would have been
because it had forever died away. If I have lived, it has been for
my honor, which is my property and the patrimony of our children;
it has been for my duty, which I have done everywhere and always;
and as it must ever be accomplished when a man has right and
justice on his side, without fear of anything or of anybody. When
one has behind one a past devoted to duty, a life devoted to honor,
when one has never known but one language, that of truth, one is
strong, I assure you, and atrocious though fate may have been, one
must have a soul lofty enough to dominate it until it bows before
one. Let us, therefore, await with confidence the decision of the
Supreme Court, as we await with confidence the decision of the new
judges before whom this decision will send me. At the same time as
your letter I have received a copy of the petition for revision,
and of the decree of the Court of Cassation, declaring it
acceptable. I read with wonderful emotion the terms of your
petition, in which you expressed admirably, as I had already done
in mine, the feelings by which I am animated in asking that an end
shall be put to the punishment of an innocent man--I may add to
that, of a noble woman, of her children, of two families, of an
innocent man who had always been a loyal soldier, who has not
ceased, even in the midst of the horrible sufferings of unmerited
chastisement, to declare his love for his native land.”

* * * * *

Always confident in the eventual result, Dreyfus wrote on February 8, 1899:

“Although I think, as I told you, that the end of our horrible
martyrdom is nigh, what does it matter if there is a little delay?
The object is everything, and until the day when I can clasp you in
my arms I would have you know my thoughts, which never leave you,
which have watched night and day over you and our children.
Besides, the letter which I wrote to you on December 26 or 27 was
too deep, too adequate an expression of my thoughts, of my
invincible will, and of my feelings, for me to add a single word to
it.”

* * * * *

Pending the receipt of the news of his rehabilitation, he sends his love to all their relatives. The latest letter, dated February 25, runs thus:

“My dear and good Lucie:

“A few lines, as I can only repeat myself, that you may still hear
the same words of firmness and dignity until the day when I am
informed of the end of this terrible judicial drama. I can well
imagine, as you tell me so yourself, what joy you feel in reading
my letters. I am sure that it is equal to my pleasure in perusing
yours. It is a bit of one which reaches the other, pending the
blessed moment when we are at last reunited. My thoughts, which
have never left you a moment, which have watched night and day over
you and our children, are always with you. I very often speak
mentally to you, but they are always the same ideas and feelings of
which I also find the echo in your letters, as all this is common
to us since these same thoughts and sentiments are the common
property, the innate basis of all loyal souls and of all honest
characters. It is with a reassured and confident mind that I must
leave to the high authority of the Court the care of the
accomplishment of its noble work of supreme justice. Pending the
news of my rehabilitation, I embrace you with all my strength, with
all my soul, as I love you and our dear and adored children.

Your devoted “ALFRED.”

* * * * *

It was soon after this he wrote the following letter to his little son:

“My dear Pierre:

“I have received your nice little letter. You wish me to write to
you. I shall soon do better; I shall soon press you in my arms.
Pending this good and sweet moment you will embrace your mamma for
me, as well as grandpapa, grandma, little Jeanne, the uncles and
aunts, all, in fact. Hearty kisses to you and little Jeanne, from
your affectionate father.

ALFRED.”

This letter, quite exceptionally, does not bear the stamp of the penal administration.

B.--HIS OWN STATEMENT OF THE CASE

Here is a letter that was received by Maître Demange, the counsel of Dreyfus, from his client, December 31, 1894. It was first made public when sent to M. Sarrien, Minister of Justice, July 11, 1898. In the published copy it was deemed necessary to suppress certain words and phrases:

“Commandant du Paty came to-day, Monday, December 31, 1894, at 5.30
P.M., after the rejection of my appeal, to ask me, on behalf of the
Minister, whether I had not, perhaps, been the victim of my
imprudence, whether I had not meant merely to lay a bait ... and
had then found myself caught fatally in the trap. I replied that I
had never had relations with any agent or attaché, ... that I had
undertaken no such process as baiting, and that I was innocent. He
then said to me on his own responsibility that he was himself
convinced of my guilt, first from an examination of the handwriting
of the document brought up against me, and from the nature of the
documents enumerated therein; secondly, from information according
to which the disappearance of documents corresponded with my
presence on the General Staff; that, finally, a secret agent had
declared that a Dreyfus was a spy, ... without, however, affirming
that that Dreyfus was an officer. I asked Commandant du Paty to be
confronted with this agent. He replied that it was impossible.
Commandant du Paty acknowledged that I had never been suspected
before the reception of the incriminating document.

“I then asked him why there had been no surveillance exercised over
the officers from the month of February, since Commandant Henry
had affirmed at the court-martial that he had been warned at that
date that there was a traitor among the officers. Commandant du
Paty replied that he knew nothing about that business, that it was
not his affair, but Commandant Henry’s; that it was difficult to
watch all the officers of the General Staff.... Then, perceiving
that he had said too much, he added: ‘We are talking between four
walls. If I am questioned on all that I shall deny everything.’ I
preserved entire calmness, for I wished to know his whole idea. To
sum up, he said that I had been condemned because there was a clue
indicating that the culprit was an officer and the seized letter
came to give precision to that clue. He added, also, that since my
arrest the leakage at the Ministry had ceased; that, perhaps, ...
had left the letter about expressly to sacrifice me, in order not
to satisfy my demands.

“He then spoke to me of the remarkable expert testimony of M.
Bertillon, according to which I had traced my own handwriting and
that of my brother in order to be able in case I should be arrested
with the letter on me to protest that it was a conspiracy against
me. He further intimated that my wife and family were my
accomplices--in short, the whole theory of M. Bertillon. At this
point, knowing what I wanted to discover, and not wishing to allow
him to insult my family as well, I stopped him, saying, ‘Enough; I
have only one word to say, namely, that I am innocent, and that
your duty is to continue your inquiries.’ ‘If you are really
innocent,’ he exclaimed, ‘you are undergoing the most monstrous
martyrdom of all time.’ ‘I am that martyr,’ I replied, ‘and I hope
the future will prove it to you.’

“To sum up, it results from this conversation: 1. That there have
been leakages at the Ministry. 2. That ... must have heard, and
must have repeated to Commandant Henry, that there was an officer
who was a traitor. I do not think he would have invented it of his
own accord. 3. That the incriminating letter was taken at.... From
all this I draw the following conclusions, the first certain, the
two others possible: First, a spy really exists ... at the French
Ministry, for documents have disappeared. Secondly, perhaps that
spy slipped in in an officer’s uniform, imitating his handwriting
in order to divert suspicion. Thirdly (here four lines and a half
are blank). This hypothesis does not exclude the fact No. 1, which
seems certain. But the tenor of the letter does not render this
third hypothesis very probable. It would be connected rather with
the first fact and the second hypothesis--that is to say, the
presence of a spy at the Ministry and imitation of my handwriting
by that spy, or simply resemblance of handwriting.

“However this may be, it seems to me that if your agent is clever
he should be able to unravel this web by laying his nets as well on
the ... side as on the ... side. This will not prevent the
employment of all the other methods I have indicated, for the truth
must be discovered. After the departure of Commandant du Paty I
wrote the following letter to the Minister: ‘I received, by order,
the visit of Commandant du Paty, to whom I once more declared that
I was innocent, and that I had never even committed an imprudence.
I am condemned. I have no favor to ask. But in the name of my
honor, which I hope will one day be restored to me, it is my duty
to beg you to continue your investigations. When I am gone let the
search be kept up; it is the only favor that I solicit.’”

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Appendix A.

[B] See Appendix B.

[C]

“Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands!
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”