en it was a great piece of luck to obtain a seat
within its sacred walls, and such an event to go to a concert that I
can still remember my sensations.

PARIS, _1899_.

My dear Sister,--You ask me to tell you about the "Dreyfus affair."

It is a lengthy tale, and such a tissue of lies and intrigue that
common sense wonders if the impossible cannot be possible, if wrong
cannot be right. You probably know more of the details of the case
than I do, if you have followed it from the beginning, as I am just
beginning to follow.

I assure you it is as much as your life is worth to speak about it;
and, as for bringing people together or inviting them to dinner, you
must first find out if they are Dreyfusards or anti-Dreyfusards,
otherwise you risk your crockery. The other day I was talking to an
old gentleman who seemed very level-headed on the start. Perhaps I
might learn something! I ventured to say, "Do tell me the real facts
about the Dreyfus affair." Had I told him that he was sitting on a
lighted bomb the effect on him could not have been more startling.

"Do you know that he is the greatest traitor that has ever lived? He
gave the _bordereau_ to the German government."

"What is a _bordereau_?" I asked.

He seemed astonished that I did not know what a _bordereau_ was. "It
is a list of secret documents. He gave this three years ago."

"Who discovered it?" I inquired.

"It was found in the paper-basket of the German Embassy, and Monsieur
Paty du Clam knew about it."

"And then?"

"Well, then he was arrested and brought before the _conseil de
guerre_, found guilty, and degraded before the army."

"Did he confess that he wrote the _bordereau_?"

"No! On the contrary, he swore he had not, but the generals decided
that he had. So he _must_ have!"

"The generals may have been mistaken," I said. "Such things have
happened."

"Oh no. It is impossible that these officers could have been
mistaken."

"What did he say when he was accused?" I continued.

"I hardly think that he was told of what he was accused."

"Do you mean to say," I cried, "that he did not know that he was
suspected of high treason?"

"He must have known that he wrote the _bordereau_," he replied.

"_If_ he wrote it," I interrupted. "Was he not condemned only on his
handwriting?"

"Yes," replied my elderly friend, whose head I had thought level. "But
to discover the truth one had to resort to all sort of ruses in order
to convict him