An Officer and a Spy

by Robert Harris

And so I am left to ponder the implications of inheriting a secret intelligence service from a predecessor who is apparently suffering from tertiary syphilis, more commonly known as general paralysis of the insane.

Pauline smiles and shakes her head. “That’s exactly what she would do. If she can’t have you, she’ll have the satisfaction of controlling whoever does.”

At three in the morning, Pauline’s breathing is slow and regular, rising from some deep soft seabed of sleep.

The pneumatic tube network follows the Paris sewers and can deliver a telegram so quickly Esterhazy would have it in his hands within an hour or two.

“Well, if not him—who?” No one responded. That was the nub of it. If the traitor wasn’t Dreyfus, then who was it? You? Me? Your comrade? Mine? Whereas if it was Dreyfus, this debilitating hunt for an enemy within would come to an end.

Most people will be only too happy to believe I work for a Jewish syndicate. And as long as the army is allowed to investigate its own misdeeds I see no hope of escape.

I lay aside the papers. Really, it is beyond hypocrisy; it is beyond even lying: it has become a psychosis.

For the first time in my life I carry hatred inside me. It is an almost physical thing, like a concealed knife. Sometimes, when I am alone, I like to take it out and run my thumb along its cold, sharp blade.

Tracks close to how I feel about what Donald Trump has done to our nation.

What I do believe is that somehow this affair must be taken out of the jurisdiction of the military and elevated to a higher plane—the details need to be assembled into a coherent narrative, so that everything can be seen for the first time in its proper proportions.” I nod to the Renoir and then glance at Zola. “Reality must be transformed into a work of art, if you will.”

“You have no reason to thank me,” I reply. “I was simply obeying my conscience.”

to one side of me the box of twelve jurors, all of them ordinary tradesmen;

How am I to answer this? Perhaps by observing that if the true measure of a man’s character, as Aristotle says, is his actions, then mine have hardly been those of an energetic anti-Semite. Still, there is nothing like an accusation of anti-Semitism to get all one’s old prejudices flowing, and I write bitterly to a friend: “I knew that one day I would be attacked by the Jews, and notably by the Dreyfuses …” Thus our beautiful cause descends into tantrums, disappointment, reproaches and acrimony.

A bit apologist from Harris. If Picquart was an anti-Semite, let him keep that shame even in drama.