Napoleon was not able to reason as clearly as he used to: his kidney stones prevented him from eating and sleeping, not to mention riding a horse; he accepted the advice of the conservatives and his wife, who were convinced that the French army was the best in the world, whereas (as it later turned out) it had no more than a hundred thousand men against four hundred thousand Prussians; and Stieber had already sent reports to Berlin about the chassepots, which the French believed to be the last word in rifles, but had already become museum pieces. Moreover, Stieber was pleased to note, the French had failed to assemble an intelligence service equal to theirs.
But let us get to the point. I met Lagrange at the agreed place.
«Captain Simonini,» he said, ignoring all formalities, «what do you know about Abbé Dalla Piccola?»
«Nothing. Why?»
«He’s disappeared, and just when he was doing a small job for us. I believe you were the last person to see him: you asked me if you could speak to him, and I sent him. And then?»
«And then I gave him the report I’d given to the Russians, so he could show it to certain ecclesiastical authorities.»
«Simonini, a month ago I received a note from the abbé, saying more or less: ‘I have to see you as soon as possible. I’ve something interesting to tell you about your Simonini.’ From the tone of his message, whatever he had to say about you couldn’t have been very flattering. So what’s been going on between you and the abbé?»
«I don’t know what he wanted to tell you. Perhaps he thought it improper for me to offer him a document that (he believed) I had produced for you. He obviously wasn’t aware of our arrangement. He said nothing to me. I’ve seen no more of him, and in fact I was wondering what had happened to my proposal.»
Lagrange fixed me in the eye for a moment, then said, «We shall talk further about this,» and he left.
There was little more to talk about. Lagrange would be following my every move, and if he really had a clear suspicion, the famous stab in the back would be coming my way, even though I’d closed the abbé’s mouth.
I needed to take precautions. I went to an armorer in rue de Lappe and asked for a swordstick. He had one, but it was badly made. I then remembered having gone by the window of a cane seller in my favorite passage Jouffroy, and there I found a splendid example with an ivory handle in the form of a snake and an ebony shaft—elegant as well as sturdy. The handle is not particularly suitable for leaning on if you happen to have a bad leg, since, though slightly curved, it is more vertical than horizontal; but it works perfectly if the cane is used as a sword.
The swordstick is a fine weapon even when confronted by someone with a pistol: you pretend to be frightened, move back and point the cane, preferably with your hand shaking. Your opponent starts laughing and takes hold of it to pull it away, but by doing so he helps you draw the sword, which is pointing toward him and deadly sharp, and while he is bewildered, wondering what he’s holding in his hand, in a flash you wield the blade, slashing him almost effortlessly from the temple crosswise down to the chin, ideally cutting through a nostril, and even if you don’t gouge an eye, the blood pouring from his forehead will block his vision. It’s the surprise that counts, and at that point your opponent is finished.
If he is an adversary of little importance, retrieve the shaft and make your departure, leaving him disfigured for the rest of his life. But if he’s more dangerous, then after the first slash, following the movement of your arm, slice back with a horizontal thrust, and make a clean cut through his throat—that way he won’t have to worry anymore about his scar.
Not to mention the dignified and respectable appearance you make when you’re walking with a cane of this kind—it’s expensive but worth it, and in some cases expense should not be spared.
Returning home one evening, I met Lagrange in front of the shop.
I lightly waved my stick, but then realized the secret service would hardly have given someone like him the task of getting rid of someone like me, so I prepared for what he had to say.
«A fine object,» he said.
«What?»
«The swordstick. With a pommel of that kind, it couldn’t be anything else. You’re worried about someone?»
«You tell me, Monsieur Lagrange.»
«You are worried about us, I know. You realize you’ve become a suspect. However, allow me to be brief. Before long there’s going to be a war between France and Prussia, and our friend Stieber has filled Paris with his agents.»
«You know them?»
«Not all of them, and that is where you come in. Having offered Stieber your report on the Jews, he regards you as someone, shall we say, who can be bought…Well then, one of his men has arrived in Paris—that fellow Goedsche, whom I think you’ve already met. We believe he’s looking for you. You’ll become the Prussian spy in Paris.»
«Against my own country?»
«Don’t be a hypocrite. It’s not your country. And if it worries you, you can do it for France. You’ll be transmitting false intelligence provided by us to the Prussians.»
«That doesn’t seem too hard.»
«On the contrary, it’s highly dangerous. If you’re discovered in Paris, we’ll have to pretend we don’t know you. Which means you’ll be shot. And if the Prussians find out you’re a double agent, they’ll kill you, though by less lawful means. In this whole business you have, let’s say, a fifty percent chance of saving your skin.»
«And if I don’t accept?»
«You’d have a one percent chance.»
«Why not zero?»
«Because of your swordstick…But don’t count on it too much.»
«I knew I had loyal friends in the service. Thank you for your consideration. Very well. I accept, and do so freely and patriotically.»
«You are a hero, Captain Simonini. Please await further orders.»
A week later, Goedsche appeared in my shop, looking more sweaty than usual. It was hard to resist the temptation to strangle him.
«You know I regard you as a plagiarist and a counterfeiter,» I said.
«No more than you,» said the German, with an unctuous smile. «Did you imagine I wouldn’t find out eventually that your story about the Prague cemetery is based on that book by Joly, who ended up in prison? I’d have found it for myself, without your help. You just made the task easier.»
«Do you realize, Herr Goedsche, that since you are a foreigner on French soil, all I have to do is mention your name to certain acquaintances and your life would not be worth one centime?»
«Do you realize that yours would be worth no more if, once arrested, I were to mention your name? So let’s declare peace. I am trying to sell that chapter of my book as fact to safe buyers. We shall go halves, seeing that we have to work together from now on.»
A few days after the beginning of the war, Goedsche took me to the roof of a house beside Notre Dame where an old man kept a number of dovecotes.
«This is a good spot for releasing pigeons, since there are hundreds of them around the cathedral and no one notices. Each time you have useful information, write a message and the old man will send one of them off. Similarly, you must pass here each morning to find out whether there are any instructions for you. Simple, no?»
«What sort of information do you want?»
«We don’t yet know what is of interest to us in Paris. For the moment we are keeping an eye on the areas at the front. But sooner or later, if we win, we’ll be interested in Paris. And then we’ll want news about troop movements, about the presence or absence of the imperial family, about morale among citizens—in other words, about everything and nothing. It’s up to you to show initiative. We might need topographical maps, and no doubt you’ll want to know how we manage to stick such maps around the neck of a pigeon. Come downstairs with me.»
On the lower floor there was a man in a photographic darkroom, and a room with a wall painted white and one of those machines that at fairs are called magic lanterns, which project pictures on walls or on large cotton sheets.
«This fellow will take your message, however long it is, and however many pages. He’ll photograph it and reduce it on a sheet of collodion, which is sent off by pigeon. When the message arrives, the image is enlarged by projecting it on a wall. And the same will happen if you receive long messages. But it’s no longer safe here for a Prussian—I’m leaving Paris tonight. We can keep in
