And so our first conversation took place as evening fell on the city and a light drizzle condensed from the thick mist, which slowly advanced until it almost obscured the cobbles in the streets. It seemed as if the coachman had received instructions to wind his way through the most deserted districts and along the darkest lanes. We could have spoken undisturbed even in boulevard des Capucines, but Osman Bey was evidently enjoying the mise en scène.
«Paris seems deserted. Look at the passersby,» said Osman Bey, with a smile that lit his face as a candle might light a skull (despite his ravaged face, he had magnificent teeth). «They move like ghosts. Perhaps at the first light of day they hurry back to their graves.»
I was losing my patience. «I admire your turn of phrase, it reminds me of Ponson du Terrail at his best, but perhaps we can talk about more concrete matters. For example, what can you tell me about Hippolyte Lutostansky?»
«He’s a swindler and a spy. He was a Catholic priest, defrocked for doing, shall we say, things he shouldn’t have done with young boys—and this in itself is a very poor recommendation since, heavens above, man is weak, as we know, but if you’re a priest you have a duty to maintain a certain dignity. Instead, he became an Orthodox monk…and I know enough about Holy Russia to say that in those monasteries, remote as they are from the world, older monks and novices are bound together in mutual—how shall I put it?—brotherly affection. But I’m not a gossipmonger and have no interest in other people’s affairs.
All I know is that your Lutostansky has taken huge amounts of money from the Russian government for writing tales about human sacrifices by Jews, the usual story about the ritual killing of Christian children. As if he’s treated children any better himself. There are also rumors that he approached several groups of Jews saying that for a sum of money he would retract everything he’d published. You can hardly imagine the Jews forking over a single sou. No, he is not to be trusted.»
Then he added, «And I forgot…he’s syphilitic.»
I have been told that the great storytellers always portray themselves in their characters.
Osman Bey listened patiently to what I had to tell him, smiling knowingly at my vivid description of the Prague cemetery, and then he interrupted: «Captain Simonini, this definitely sounds like literature, just as much as what you were suggesting about me. All I’m looking for is clear evidence of relations between the Alliance Israélite and Freemasonry and—if it’s possible not to dig around in the past but to forecast the future—of relations between French Jews and the Prussians. The Alliance is a power that is casting a net of gold around the world so it will own everything and everyone, and this is what has to be proved and exposed. Powers like the Alliance have existed for centuries, even before the Roman empire. That’s what makes them work; they’ve existed for three thousand years. Just think how they’ve taken over France through a Jew like Thiers.»
«Was Thiers a Jew?»
«Who isn’t? They’re all around us, watching over us, controlling our investments, directing our armies, influencing the Church and governments. I bribed someone working for the Alliance—the French are all corrupt—and have copies of the letters sent to various Jewish committees in countries bordering Russia. These committees extend along the whole frontier, and while the police watch the major roads, their messengers travel over fields, marshlands and waterways. It’s a single web. I have informed the tsar of this conspiracy and have saved Holy Russia. I alone. I love peace. I would like a world ruled by moderation, where the word ‘violence’ no longer has any meaning. If the world were rid of Jews, who use their money to finance arms dealers, we’d have a hundred years of happiness.»
«And so?»
«And so one day we’ll have to try out the only reasonable solution, the final solution—the extermination of all Jews. Even children? Yes, even children. I know the idea might seem Herodian, but when the seed is bad it’s not enough for the plant to be cut down—it has to be eradicated. If you don’t want mosquitoes, you kill the larvae. Concentrating on the Alliance Israélite will just be a first step. The Alliance can only be destroyed through the complete elimination of the race.»
At the end of that journey through the deserted streets of Paris, Osman Bey made a proposal.
«What you have offered me, Captain, is very little. You cannot expect me to give you important information on the Alliance, about which I will soon know everything. But I propose a pact: I am able to investigate the Jews of the Alliance, but not the Freemasons. Coming from mystical, Orthodox Russia, and without any particular acquaintances in this city’s financial and intellectual circles, I cannot join the Freemasons. They take people like you, with watches in their waistcoat pockets. It shouldn’t be difficult to find your way in among them. I’m told you claim to have been part of one of Garibaldi’s campaigns—a Mason if ever there was one. So then, you tell me about the Masons and I’ll tell you about the Alliance.»
«A verbal agreement and no more?»
«Between gentlemen there’s no need to put things in writing.»
20. Russians?
12th April 1897, nine in the morning
Dear Abbé, we are definitely two different people. I have proof of it.
This morning, around eight o’clock, I awoke (in my own bed), went into my office, still in my nightshirt, and caught sight of a black figure slipping away downstairs. I immediately noticed that someone had interfered with my papers. I grabbed my swordstick, which was fortunately within easy reach, and went down to the shop. I saw a dark shadow like some bird of ill omen passing into the street. I pursued it and—either by pure misfortune or because the intruder had carefully planned his escape—I tripped over a stool that shouldn’t have been there.
I rushed out limping into the passageway with my swordstick unsheathed, but alas, I could see no one. My visitor had gone. But it was you, I swear it. As a matter of fact, I returned to your apartment and saw that your bed was empty.
12th April, midday
Captain Simonini,
I am replying to your message having only just woken up (in my bed). I swear I could not have been in your apartment this morning, as I was asleep. But as I was awakening, around eleven o’clock, I was terrified by the sight of a man—surely you—disappearing along the corridor where the costumes hang. In my nightshirt I followed you as far as your apartment, saw you descend like a phantom into your junk shop and slip out through the door. I too tripped over a stool, and by the time I had reached impasse Maubert there was no trace of the figure. But I could swear it was you. Tell me whether I’m right, I beg of you.
12th April, early afternoon
Dear Abbé,
What is happening to me? I’m clearly ill. There are moments when I seem to go faint and then regain consciousness to find you have been writing in my diary. Are we the same person? Think a moment, in the name of good sense rather than logical reasoning. If our two encounters had both happened at the same time, it would be possible to imagine that one person was me and the other was you. But what each of us experienced happened at different times. Certainly, if I arrive home and see someone running off, I can be sure that person is not me; but the idea that he must be you is based on the belief, with very little basis to it, that this morning there were only the two of us in this house.
If there were only the two of us, something is not right. You would have been rummaging through my things at eight o’clock in the morning and I would have pursued you. Then I’d have gone rummaging through your things at eleven and you’d have followed me. But why does each of us remember the time and moment when he found the intruder in his house and not the time and moment when he entered the other’s house?
We could, of course, have forgotten, or have wanted to forget, or we could have kept quiet about it for some reason. But I, for example, am quite sure, in absolute honesty, that I have not kept quiet about anything. Then again, let’s be honest, the idea that two different people would have the same desire at the same time to conceal a certain fact from the other seems rather fanciful, and not even Montépin would have dreamed up such a story.
It is more likely that three people were involved. A mysterious Monsieur Mystère, who I thought was you, enters my apartment in the early morning. At eleven o’clock the same Monsieur Mystère, who you think is me, enters your place. Does it seem so incredible, with all the spies around?
But this does not confirm that we are two different people. The same person can, as Simonini, remember Mystère visiting at eight, then lose his memory and, as Dalla Piccola, remember Mystère visiting at eleven.
The whole story, therefore, doesn’t really answer the problem of our identity. It has simply complicated the lives of both of us (or of that person who we both are) by involving a third person who is
