Back at my lodgings I asked the concierge for the key to my room. He confirmed my worst fears. “Sir,” he said, “you are suspected of being German and will have to show your passport to prove otherwise.” I decided on the spot to return to Germany via Switzerland in the guise of a Frenchman. I smiled, told him all was well, that my passport was in my room, and I would show it to him later. I took the key and went upstairs. I burnt my passport and any other letter or document that could identify me as a German. Next I made a parcel of my best clothes and most valuable books and immediately vacated the premises, never to return. The clothes were pawned for seven francs and the books brought five francs from a bookseller on the Quay d’Orsay. I used some of this money to purchase a detailed road map of France - also some cheese, biscuits, water and tobacco, with which to sustain myself - and a railway ticket for the last train of the day to Melun, a large town, 50 kilometres to the south-east of Paris.
I still had six francs in my pocket, and could have easily afforded an inn that first night in Melun, but I hesitated. I was afraid that I would be asked to show my passport. The nearby Forest of Fontainbleau, the finest park in the whole of France, seemed a safer option. I camped there instead. Rising with the sun, I passed through the town of Fontainbleau before it rose, and hurried on to Sens. I was very conscious of feeling too conspicuous. I sensed that I no way resembled a local provincial or a regular tramp; rather that I bore the air of a refugee from Paris. My response was therefore to avoid towns and make for the cornfields instead. There I could lie down, unseen by passers-by on the road, and pass the daylight hours reading, smoking and sleeping. When dusk fell I could recommence my journey. I maintained such a routine for six days.
On the seventh day I slept behind a stone wall enclosing a vineyard. Then at four in the afternoon a feeling that someone was coming my way awakened me. I rose, emerged from behind the wall and smartened myself up. I had run out of food and felt faint and weak. The time had arrived to venture into a town again to lay in new provisions. The nearest one was Dole, the birthplace of Pasteur, with twelve thousand inhabitants. Given its population the outskirts of Dole were unusually quiet. The streets were empty and the very occasional person that passed by seemed totally disinterested in me. But things can change quickly. Suddenly I emerged from a steep narrow street into a large overcrowded square. There the most bewildering and frightening scene of communal grief that I had ever seen confronted me. Thousands of people were wailing, grinding their teeth, wringing their hands, tearing out their hair. I heard shouts of - “all butchered” - “France is betrayed” - “we’ll avenge them” - “aux armes citoyens.” France had obviously lost a major battle. Till then I hadn’t realised that hostilities had already begun. I was very keen to ascertain the facts but at the same time I was naturally careful not to draw attention to myself by enquiring. Inconspicuously I edged my way through the crowd to the gates of the Prefecture where despatches had been posted on a notice board. I read them. They announced a terrible slaughter of the flower of the French forces at Weissembourg and Reichshofen.
I had scarcely finished reading when a man tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to face him and ask what he wanted but there was no time to compose a question. He had placed his hand on my shoulder again and shouted for the benefit of the bystanders, “You are arrested! This is the reason we were defeated! This is a Prussian spy!”
“A Prussian spy!” the crowd echoed. You can’t imagine the fear or terror that these words ushered forth from within. I was totally helpless, surrounded by an infuriated mob, many of them ignorant provincials, incapable of mastering aggression, and easily led to exact revenge on a hapless stranger, at a mere suggestion. For a few seconds my head became target practice for a succession of projectiles. One drunken individual even tried to stab me. It was only his vanity in imagining himself an orator that saved my life. Brandishing a dagger in his right hand, and my coat collar in his left, he spurted forth a speech as a prelude to his heroic act. “Citizens,” he thundered, “behold an enemy of our State. I have been a soldier and don’t despise an open enemy in the field. I am the last person to treat a prisoner of war badly. A fair fight is worthy but espionage and subterfuge, that is a different matter! We must put an end to this snake-in-the-grass behaviour. We French are a brave and strong people. It is only because of spying beasts such as he, that we have lost a single battle. Let’s make an example of him. What shall we do? Speak citizens, speak!” “Do away with him,” the crowd replied. “For my country,” my would-be executioner shouted. But before he could plunge his cold steel into my breast, the powerful hands of a number of policemen grabbed him.
A gendarme approached me. “Who are you?” he demanded. “I am not a Prussian spy,” I replied, as I was conducted into the police station and seated in a comfortable armchair in the middle of a spacious room. Spectators filed into it quickly to witness my preliminary interrogation. The Inspector who was to question me was still busy in the telegraph office. This left me time in which to concoct a plausible tale. I would have liked to tell the truth, that I was German and not a spy but the raging and the clamouring of the mob outside convinced me otherwise. They were shouting, “Deliver us the spy!” The thought of a firing squad put paid to any plans I had of not lying. In the midst of all this agony, the door opened and the Inspector entered. “Strasbourg is surrounded by the Prussians,” he whispered to someone seated nearby. Others whispered similar to their neighbours. The people in the room were disturbed by the news, but to me who was not supposed to hear, it brought great relief.
“Ah,” said the Inspector, as he sat in a chair facing his audience, “so this is the Prussian spy?” Every eye was fixed on me. Calmly, and in a studied tone, I replied. “Sir, you insult me, I am not a Prussian spy.” “What are you then?” he retorted. “I am a native of Strasbourg,” I pleaded, “who has resided in Paris a number of years. I intended to return home, but hearing it was difficult to pass the Prussian lines, I elected to go to Neufchatel instead, where I have friends. This accounts for my visit to Dole.” “That is a lie,” the Inspector countered, rising from his chair and addressing the audience. “Gentlemen, see how calm and collected this vagabond looks! There’s not even the slightest indication of fear on his face. He’s a spy and a very clever one into the bargain. The Prussians don’t send fools on such errands. Oh no! They’re clever knaves. Their strength lies in their cunning, not their valour. Gentlemen you have no idea what sort of training these Prussian officers receive. They are all Bachelors of Arts, polyglots, philosophers and scientists. It is all study and examinations with them. This fellow here is a fair specimen of one. Don’t be misled by his behaviour!”
The Inspector sat down highly satisfied with his speech. He wrote for a few seconds. Everyone in the room started whispering again. I wanted to say some words in my defence but the Inspector silenced me and asked for a company of soldiers to be brought from the railway station.
When the soldiers arrived I was handed over to an officer. “This is a Prussian spy,” the Inspector said. “Here is the order for his arrest. Conduct him safely to prison. See that the people do not harm him. We will court-martial him tomorrow.”
My gaoler was an old soldier from the First Empire who delighted in having a spy in his custody and set to work with great zeal. He brought me prison clothes and bade me undress. As I removed each garment he carefully examined it. He turned out the pockets and opened the linings, looking for a document that might help establish my guilt. He chuckled when he found the map of France. “At last,” he held it up triumphantly, “conclusive evidence of your guilt. What fools those gendarmes are. Why did they not search you at once? Tomorrow, Sir, you will be shot. Yes, shot! I salute you. You are a soldier, an officer of rank. We shan’t degrade you by hanging you like a dog. Oh, no! You shall die like a brave soldier. Let people say what they like about it being contemptible to be a spy. I say that it requires more courage than to fight on a battlefield.”
I was left alone in my cell with the regulation loaf of bread and jug of water but was neither hungry nor thirsty. My head was full of thoughts of the trial the next day. Lying on an old iron bedstead, I could think of nothing else but the wrong verdict and twelve bullets. Unable to contain my emotions I burst into tears, and then, eventually, exhaustion sent me to sleep.
I