And quite a stir it certainly caused, creating a scandal involving journalists and government officials as well as former ministers. Reinach committed suicide, several important figures went to prison, Lesseps managed to avoid imprisonment by reason of age, Eiffel got out by the skin of his teeth. Drumont triumphed as the scourge of malfeasance, and above all had produced solid arguments in his campaign against the Jews.
A Few Bombsi
Before he could approach Drumont, however, it seems that Simonini was summoned by Hébuterne to his usual spot in the nave of Notre Dame.
«Captain Simonini,» he said, «some years ago I appointed you to incite Taxil into a campaign against the Masons, one that would prove to be such a circus that it would rebound against the more vulgar opponents of Freemasonry. The man who guaranteed on your behalf that the enterprise would be kept under control was Abbé Dalla Piccola, to whom I entrusted a considerable amount of money. But it now seems this Taxil is going too far. And since it was you who sent the abbé to me, you must put pressure on him, and on Taxil.»
At this point in his diary, Simonini admits to himself that his mind is a blank: he seems to remember that Abbé Dalla Piccola had to look after Taxil, but cannot recall appointing him to do any particular task. He remembers saying to Hébuterne only that he would deal with the matter. Then he told him that his present interest was in the Jews and that he was about to get in touch with Drumont and his friends. He was surprised to note how favorably disposed Hébuterne was toward that group. Had he not emphasized repeatedly, Simonini asked him, that the government didn’t want to be mixed up in anti-Jewish campaigns?
«Things change, Captain,» Hébuterne replied. «Until recently, you see, the Jews were either poor folk who lived in a ghetto, as they still do in Russia and in Rome, or they were great bankers, as here in France. The poor Jews were moneylenders or practiced medicine, but those who made their fortune financed the court and grew rich on loans to the king, supplying money for his wars. In this way they always sided with power and didn’t get mixed up in politics. And being interested in finance, they didn’t get involved in industry. Then something happened that we were slow in noticing. After the Revolution, countries needed sums of money much larger than the Jews could supply, so they gradually lost their monopoly position over credit. Meanwhile, little by little—and only now do we realize this—the Revolution had brought equality to all citizens, at least here in France.
And the Jews, except for those poor folk in the ghettos, joined the bourgeoisie—not only the capitalist upper bourgeoisie but also the petite bourgeoisie, that of the professions, the state authorities and the army. Do you know how many Jewish officers there are today? More than you’d ever imagine. And it’s not just the army: the Jews are gradually working their way into the anarchist and communist underworld. Once upon a time, all good revolutionaries were anti-Jewish, because they were anti-capitalist, and the Jews were always allies of the government in power, but today it’s fashionable to be a Jew d’opposition.
And what was that man Marx, of whom our revolutionaries so often talk? He was a penniless bourgeois who lived off his aristocratic wife. And we cannot forget, for example, that all higher education is in their hands, from secondary school to the École des Hautes Études, and all the Paris theaters are in their hands, and most of the newspapers—look at the Journal des Débats, the official paper of the haute banque.»
Simonini still didn’t understand what it was Hébuterne wanted, now that the Jewish bourgeoisie were becoming a nuisance. When he asked, Hébuterne replied with a vague gesture.
«I don’t know. We simply have to keep an eye on the situation. The problem is whether we can trust this new class of Jews. Let’s be clear: I am not interested in those fantasies about a Jewish plot to take over the world. Bourgeois Jews no longer identify with their original community and are often ashamed of it. At the same time they are citizens who cannot be trusted—they have been properly French for only a short while and could betray us tomorrow, perhaps in league with bourgeois Prussian Jews. Most of the spies during the Prussian invasion were Alsace Jews.»
As they were about to say goodbye, Hébuterne added: «Incidentally, back in Lagrange’s time you had dealings with a certain Gaviali. It was you who had him arrested.»
«Yes, he was head of the bombers at rue de la Huchette. They’re all in Cayenne or thereabouts, if I remember correctly.»
«Except for Gaviali, who escaped recently. He’s been spotted in Paris.»
«Is it possible to escape from Devil’s Island?»
«It’s possible to escape from anywhere if you’re tough enough.»
«Why don’t you arrest him?»
«Because a good bomb maker might be useful right now. We’ve managed to track him down. He’s working as a rag-and-bone man in Clignancourt. Why not go and find him?»
Rag-and-bone men weren’t hard to track down in Paris. They were spread across the whole city, but their main enclave had traditionally been between rue Mouffetard and rue Saint-Médard. They (or at least those described by Hébuterne) lived close to the city gate at Clignancourt, in a colony of shacks with brushwood roofs, and it was a mystery how sunflowers could grow there, in that putrid atmosphere, in the warmer weather.
Nearby, at one time, had been a restaurant aux pieds humides, so named because the customers had to wait their turn in the street. Once inside, they paid one sou and plunged an enormous fork into a cauldron and fished out whatever they could—a piece of meat if they were lucky, or a carrot—before being sent out again.
Rag-and-bone men had their own hôtels garnis. The rooms were not much—a bed, a table, two odd chairs. On the wall, some holy pictures or engravings from old novels salvaged from the refuse. A piece of mirror, essential for the Sunday wash and brush-up. Here the rag-and-bone man would sort out his finds: bones, china, glass, old ribbons, scraps of silk. The day began at six in the morning, and if the city sergeants (or flics, as everyone now called them) found anyone still at work after seven in the evening, they would be fined.
Simonini went looking for Gaviali. And finally, at a bibine that sold not only cheap wine but also an absinthe that was said to be lethal (as if the ordinary stuff wasn’t bad enough), a figure was pointed out to him. Simonini wasn’t wearing his beard, since he remembered he hadn’t been wearing one when he knew Gaviali. Although twenty years had passed, he thought he could still be recognized. It was Gaviali who was unrecognizable.
His face was pale and wrinkled, and he had a long beard. Around his scrawny neck a yellowish cravat resembling a piece of rope hung from a greasy collar. On his head was a tattered cap; he wore a greenish frock coat over a crumpled waistcoat; his splattered shoes looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned for years, and a layer of mud plastered his laces to the leather. But Gaviali’s appearance would hardly have been noticeable among these rag-and-bone men, since no one else was dressed any better.
Simonini introduced himself, expecting a cordial response. Instead, Gaviali looked at him with a piercing gaze.
«You have the gall, Captain, to stand there in front of me!» he said. And seeing Simonini’s look of bewilderment, he continued: «Do you think I’m quite so stupid? That day when the police arrived and fired on us, I saw perfectly well how you gave the coup de grâce to that wretch you’d sent to us as your agent. All of us survivors ended up on the same boat sailing for Cayenne, and you weren’t there. It was easy to put two and two together. Fifteen years lazing about in Cayenne gives you time to think: you planned our conspiracy so you could then expose it. It must be a profitable business.»
«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
