by Eco, Umberto
"And so? You want your revenge? You're reduced to the shadow of a man. If your theory is right, I must be in league with the police, and one word in the right direction would be enough to send you back to Cayenne."
"No, Captain. Good heavens, no. Those years in Cayenne have made me a wiser man. When you're in a conspiracy there's always the risk of getting mixed up with a mouchard. It's like playing cops and robbers. And anyway, it's been said that all revolutionaries over the years become defenders of throne and altar. I'm not much interested in throne or altar, but for me the time of great ideals is over. With this so-called Third Republic you can't be sure which tyrant you ought to be killing. There's still one thing I know how to do, and that's make bombs. And the fact you've come looking for me means you want bombs. That's fine, as long as you pay. You see where I'm living. A change of lodgings and restaurant would be quite enough. Who do I have to kill off? Like all old revolutionaries I've become a mercenary. That's a job you must know well."
"Yes, I want bombs from you, Gaviali. I don't know what kind yet, or where. We'll talk about that when the time comes. I can promise you money, a clean slate regarding your past, and new papers."
Gaviali said he was ready to work for anyone who paid well, and Simonini in the meantime gave him enough to survive on without having to collect rags for at least a month. There's nothing like the threat of jail to encourage obedience to another's commands.
It was some time later that Hébuterne told Simonini what Gaviali had to do. In December 1893 an anarchist, Auguste Vaillant, had thrown a small explosive device, filled with nails, in the Chamber of Deputies, shouting: "Death to the bourgeoisie! Long live anarchy!" It was a symbolic gesture. "If I had wanted to kill, I'd have filled the bomb with shot," said Vaillant at his trial. "You don't expect me to lie to give you the pleasure of cutting off my head." They cut off his head all the same, to set an example, but that was not the problem. The secret service was worried that gestures of this kind might seem heroic and would therefore be imitated.
"There are those who set a bad example," Hébuterne explained to Simonini, "who defend and encourage terror and social unrest, while they remain comfortably ensconced in their clubs and restaurants discussing poetry and drinking champagne. Look at Laurent Tailhade, a gutter journalist who enjoys a double influence on public opinion since he's also a parliamentary deputy. This is what he wrote about Vaillant: 'What does it matter about the victims if the gesture was laudable?' The Tailhades of this world are more dangerous than the Vaillants because it's more difficult to cut off their heads. It is time these intellectuals who never pay for what they do were taught a public lesson."
And the lesson had to be arranged by Simonini, and by Gaviali. At Foyot, in the very corner where Tailhade was enjoying one of his expensive meals, a bomb exploded a few weeks later and he lost an eye. (Gaviali was indeed a genius: the bomb had been devised in such a way that the victim, rather than dying, would be injured just enough.) The government newspapers made the most of it, writing sarcastic comments such as, "So, Monsieur Tailhade, was this a laudable gesture?" A great success for the government, for Gaviali and for Simonini. And, in addition to his eye, Tailhade lost his reputation.
Most satisfied of all was Gaviali, and Simonini was pleased to restore a livelihood and respect to someone who, through life's vicissitudes, had had the misfortune to lose them.
Hébuterne had entrusted Simonini with other assignments over these same years. The Panama scandal was by now losing its impact on public opinion — people get bored after a while when the news is always the same. Drumont was no longer interested in the case, but others were still fanning the flames, and the government was worried that it might (how would one put it today?) all back- fire. It was time to distract attention from the last dregs of a story that was now stale, and Hébuterne asked Simonini to organize a riot — big enough to fill the front pages of the newspapers.
Simonini said organizing a riot would not be easy, and Hébuterne suggested that those most inclined to cause a disturbance were students. The best approach was to get the students to start something and then call in a specialist in public disorder.
Simonini had no contacts among students, but those who did, he immediately thought, were revolutionaries and, better yet, anarchists. And who knew the anarchist groups better than anyone? Someone whose job it was to infiltrate and expose them, and therefore Rachkovsky. So he sent word to Rachkovsky, who, displaying all his lupine teeth in a smile that was meant to be friendly, asked for details.
"All I want is a few students who can cause a disturbance when required."
"That's easy," said the Russian. "Go to the Château-Rouge." The Château-Rouge in rue Galande appeared to be a meeting place in the Latin Quarter for down-and-outs. It stood at the end of a courtyard, with a guillotine-red façade. As you entered, you were hit by the asphyxiating stench of rancid grease and mildew, and of soup that had been cooked and recooked over the years, leaving tangible traces on those greasy walls — though there was no apparent reason for this, since you had to bring your own food with you, and the house offered wine and plates only. The noxious haze of tobacco smoke and gas escaping from the lamps seemed to have cast a drowsiness over the dozens of tramps sitting there, three or four on either side of the tables, each sleeping on the shoulder of the other.
But the two inner rooms admitted no vagrants. Here instead were old whores wearing cheap jewelry, fourteen-year-old tarts with a premature air of insolence, sunken eyes and the pallid mark of tuberculosis, and local rogues wearing showy rings with fake stones and redingotes a cut above the rags in the first room. Wandering about in that reeking confusion were well-dressed women, and men in evening wear. A visit to the Château-Rouge had become an experience not to be missed: late in the evening, after the theater, elegant carriages arrived — le tout Paris came to enjoy the thrill of the demimonde, most of whom had probably been recruited by the landlord (with free absinthe) to attract the respectable people, who would pay twice the proper price for the same absinthe.
At the Château-Rouge, on Rachkovsky's advice, Simonini met a man called Fayolle, a fetus trader by occupation. He was an elderly man who spent his evenings there drinking 160-proof eau de vie, spending what he had earned that day from his tour of the hospitals, where he collected fetuses and embryos to sell to students at the École de Médecine. Fayolle stank of rotten flesh as well as alcohol, and was obliged, because of the stench, to sit alone, even in the fetid atmosphere of the Château-Rouge; but he was said to have good connections with the student world, especially with those who had become professional students over the years — those who were more inclined toward interests other than studying fetuses, and ready to cause trouble whenever the occasion arose.
At that time, as luck would have it, the youngsters in the Latin
* * *
But the two inner rooms admitted no vagrants. Here
instead were old whores wearing cheap jewelry, fourteen-year-old
tarts with a premature air of insolence,
sunken eyes and the pallid mark of tuberculosis, and
local rogues wearing showy rings with fake stones and
redingotes a cut above the rags in the first room.
* * *
Quarter had become annoyed at an old prig, Senator Bérenger, whom they had nicknamed Père la Pudeur. He had proposed a law to put a stop to offenses against morality, of which (he said) the prime victims were the students themselves. The pretext was a series of performances at the Bal des Quat'z Arts by a certain Sarah Brown, who appeared semi-naked, exposing ample quantities of flesh (and was probably clammy with sweat, Simonini imagined with horror).
Woe to anyone depriving students of the honest pleasures of voyeurism. Fayolle and his group were already planning to go one night and cause a disturbance under the senator's windows. All Simonini had to do was find out which night and arrange for a few ruffians to be in the neighborhood, ready and waiting for a fight. For a modest sum Fayol
le was prepared to handle everything. All Simonini had to do was tell Hébuterne the date and the time.
The students had barely begun their disturbance when a company of soldiers or police (or whatever they were) arrived. There is nothing better than the arrival of policemen to kindle feelings of violence among students. A few stones began to fly and there was plenty of shouting. Then some poor wretch who happened to be passing was struck in the face by a bullet fired by a soldier. Here was the vital death. And that was it, the beginnings of a proper revolt. At this point Fayolle's thugs arrived. The students stopped a bus, politely asked the passengers to get off, unharnessed the horses and overturned the vehicle to use as a barricade, but the professionals weighed in immediately, setting the bus alight. In short, a noisy protest turned into a riot, and from a riot to a hint of revolution. Plenty to keep the front pages busy for quite some time. Adieu, Panama.
The Bordereau
The most profitable year for Simonini was 1894. It happened almost by chance, though chance always needs a helping hand.
Around that time Drumont's bitterness about the number of Jews in the army had deepened.
"No one talks about it," Drumont ranted. "No one wants to compromise our faith in the army by speaking out about these potential traitors to our fatherland at the very heart of our most glorious institution, or to say that the army is being corrupted by so many of these Jews," and he pronounced the words "ces Juëfs, ces Juëfs" with his lips protruding, as if his fierce, impetuous words would reach out directly to the whole infamous Israelite race. "But someone must speak out. Do you know how the Jew is now trying to make himself respectable? By making a career as an officer, or mixing in the drawing rooms of the aristocracy as an artist and pederast. Adultery with old-fashioned gentlemen or with respectable clergymen no longer amuses our duchesses. They never tire of the bizarre, the exotic, the monstrous; they let themselves be wooed by patchouli-scented characters made up like women. Whatever perversions the aristocracy gets up to are of little interest to me — those countesses who used to fornicate with one Louis after another were no better — but perversion within the army is the end of French civilization. I am convinced that most of the Jewish officers are Prussian spies, but I need evidence, evidence.
"So find it!" he shouted to his newspaper staff.
At the offices of La Libre Parole Simonini made the acquaintance of Major Esterhazy. Quite a dandy, Esterhazy continually boasted of his noble origins and his Viennese education; he mentioned past and future duels and was known to be heavily in debt. The newspaper staff avoided him when he approached on private business since they expected to be asked for a loan, and money lent to Esterhazy was never repaid. Slightly effeminate, he held an embroidered handkerchief to his mouth, and some said he was tubercular. His military career had been very odd: he first served as a cavalry officer in the Italian military campaign of 1866, then in the papal Zouaves, before joining the Foreign Legion, fighting in the Franco- Prussian War. It was rumored he had been involved in military counterespionage, but this was clearly not the kind of information anyone paraded on their uniform. Drumont held him in high esteem, perhaps to assure himself of a military contact.
One day Esterhazy invited Simonini to dinner at the Boeuf à la Mode. After ordering a filet mignon d'agneau aux laituesand discussing the wine list, Esterhazy came to the point: "Captain Simonini, our friend Drumont is looking for evidence he will never find. The problem is not finding out whether there are Prussian spies of Jewish origin in the army. Heavens above, there are spies everywhere in this world and we can hardly be scandalized by another one here or there. The political problem is to demonstrate they exist. And to nail a spy or a conspirator, there's no need, you'll agree, to find the evidence. It is easier and cheaper to create it — and if possible to create not just the evidence but the spy himself. We must therefore, in the national interest, choose a Jewish officer who might be open to suspicion through some weakness, and show he has passed important information to the Prussian embassy in Paris."
"Whom do you mean by 'we'?"
"I am speaking on behalf of the Statistics Department of the Service des Renseignements Français, directed by Lieutenant Colonel Sandherr. You may know that this department, with such an unassuming name, is concerned primarily with the Germans. It was interested at first in German internal affairs — information of every kind from the newspapers, from reports of officers there on business, from the police, from our agents on both sides of the frontier, trying to find out as much as possible about the organization of their army, how many cavalry divisions they had, how much their troops were paid — in other words, everything. But the department recently decided to look into what the Germans are doing here in France. There are those who complain about the mixing up of espionage and counterespionage, but the two activities are closely linked. We have to know what's going on in the German embassy, because it is foreign territory, and this is espionage; but there they gather information on us, and to find out about that is counterespionage. And so we have a Madame Bastian who's a cleaner at the embassy. She works for us and pretends to be illiterate when in fact she can read and understand German. Every day she empties the wastebaskets in the embassy offices and sends us the notes and documents that the Prussians believe they've consigned for destruction (you know how dull-witted they are). So we have to produce a document in which our officer gives highly secret news about French armaments. At that point it will be presumed that the author must be someone who has access to secret information, and he'll be exposed. We therefore need a small note, a memorandum — we call it a bordereau. That is why we have come to you, who in such matters, we are told, are a master."
Simonini didn't ask how the Statistics Department knew of his skills. They may have heard from Hébuterne. He thanked Esterhazy for the compliment and said, "I imagine I'll have to reproduce the handwriting of a particular person."
"We have already identified the perfect candidate. His name is Captain Dreyfus, from Alsace of course. He is working for the department as a trainee. He's married to a rich woman and fancies himself a tombeur de femmes, so his colleagues can hardly bear him and wouldn't find him any better if he were Christian. He'll arouse no feelings of solidarity. He's an excellent sacrificial victim. After the document is received, investigations will be made and Dreyfus's handwriting will be recognized. After that it will be up to people like Drumont to whip up public scandal, expose the Jewish peril and at the same time save the honor of the armed forces that have so masterfully uncovered and dealt with it. Clear?"
Perfectly clear. In early October Simonini found himself in the presence of Lieutenant Colonel Sandherr, an ashen-faced man with insignificant features — the proper physiognomy for the head of an espionage and counterespionage service.
"Here we have an example of Dreyfus's handwriting, and here is the text to transcribe," said Sandherr, passing him two sheets of paper. "As you see, the note must be addressed to the military attaché at the embassy, von Schwarzkoppen, and must announce the arrival of military papers on the hydraulic brake for the 120-millimeter gun, and other details of that kind. The Germans are desperate for information like this."
* * *
"After that it will be up to people like Drumont to
whip up public scandal."
* * *
"Might it be appropriate to include some technical detail?" asked Simonini. "It would look more compromising."
"I hope you realize," said Sandherr, "once the scandal has erupted, this bordereau will become public property. We cannot let the newspapers have technical information. So down to business, Captain Simonini. For your convenience I have prepared a room with all the necessary writing materials. The paper, pen and ink are those used in these offices. I want it well done. You may take aslong and try as many times as you wish, until the handwriting is perfect."
And that is what Simonini did. The bordereau, written on onionskin paper, was a document of thirty lines, eighteen on one side and tw
elve on the other. Simonini had taken care to ensure that the lines of the first page were wider apart than those of the second, where the handwriting looked more hurried, since this is what happens when a letter is written in a state of agitation — it is more relaxed at the beginning and then accelerates. He had also taken into account that a document of this kind, if it is thrown away, is first torn up and would therefore reach the Statistics Department in several pieces before being reassembled, and so it would be better to space out the letter, to assist the collage, without straying too far from the writing he had been given.
All in all, he had done a good job.
Sandherr then had the bordereau sent to the minister of war, General Mercier, and at the same time ordered an examination of all documents circulated by all officials in the department. In the end his staff informed him that the handwriting was that of Dreyfus, who was arrested on the 15th of October. The news was carefully kept secret for two weeks, with just a few details allowed to leak out in order to whet the curiosity of journalists. Then a name began to circulate, first in strictest secrecy, and finally it was admitted that the guilty man was Captain Dreyfus.
As soon as Esterhazy had been authorized by Sandherr, he immediately told Drumont, who ran through the rooms of the newspaper office waving the major's message and shouting, "The evidence, the evidence, here's the evidence!"