All that remained was to «kill off» Dalla Piccola (for the second time). It didn’t take much. Simonini removed the abbé’s makeup and hung the cassock back in the corridor, and thus Dalla Piccola disappeared from the face of the earth. As a precaution he removed the prie-dieu and religious books from the apartment, taking them down to his shop as objects to sell to unlikely collectors, after which he had a perfectly ordinary pied-à-terre ready for use by some other impersonation.
There was no trace of all that had happened, except in the memories of Taxil and Bataille. But Bataille, after his betrayal, would certainly never be seen again, and as for Taxil, the story was due to end that very afternoon.
On the afternoon of the 19th of April, dressed in his normal attire, Simonini went to enjoy the spectacle of Taxil’s retraction. Apart from Dalla Piccola, Taxil had known only Maître Fournier, the fake notary, who was beardless, with auburn hair and two gold teeth. Taxil had seen the bearded Simonini only once, when he had employed him to falsify the letters of Hugo and Blanc, but that had been fifteen years ago and he had probably forgotten the face of that amanuensis. To cover all eventualities, Simonini wore a gray beard and green glasses, which made him look like a member of the Société de Géographie, so that he could sit in the audience and enjoy the entertainment.
News of the event had appeared in all the newspapers. The room was crowded; some people came out of curiosity, others were followers of Diana Vaughan, Masons, journalists and several representatives of the archbishop and the apostolic nuncio.
Taxil spoke with typically southern dash and eloquence. Surprising the audience, who were there to see Diana and to hear confirmation of all that Taxil had published over the past fifteen years, he began by attacking the Catholic journalists and introduced the substance of his revelations by saying, «It is better to laugh than to cry, as the wisdom of nations goes.» He described his enjoyment of hoaxes: «I wasn’t born in Marseilles for nothing,» he joked, to the amusement of the audience. He recounted with delight the story of the sharks at Marseilles and the submerged city in Lake Geneva, to convince the audience that he was a prankster. Nothing equaled the greatest prank in his life, however, so he told the story of his apparent conversion and how he had misled the confessors and spiritual counselors appointed to ensure the sincerity of his repentance.
His opening was interrupted first by laughter and then by angry outbursts from several priests, who were becoming increasingly outraged. People stood up and began to leave the hall, others took hold of their seats as if to attack him. In short, there was great disorder, over which the voice of Taxil could still be heard, describing how he had decided to attack the Masons in order to please the Church after Humanum Genus. «But in the end,» he said, «even the Masons ought to be thankful, because my publication of their rituals had some influence on their decision to suppress outmoded practices, which had become ridiculous for every Mason who was a friend of progress.
As for the Catholics, I found out in the early days of my conversion that many of them are convinced that the Great Architect of the Universe—the Supreme Being of the Masons—is the devil. So all I had to do was embroider upon this conviction.»
The commotion continued. When Taxil turned to his conversation with Leo XIII (the pope had asked him, «My son, what do you wish?» and Taxil had replied, «Holy Father, to die at your feet, right now, would be my greatest happiness!»), the shouts became a chorus. One person yelled, «Respect Leo XIII. You have no right to utter his name!» Another, «Do we have to listen to this? It’s disgusting!» And another, «Ah, the scoundrel! What an orgy of depravity!» The howls of laughter grew still louder.
«And so,» said Taxil, «I allowed the tree of modern Luciferianism to grow, introducing a Palladian ritual into it, fabricated entirely by me from beginning to end.»
Then he described how an old alcoholic friend had created Doctor Bataille, how he had invented Sophie Walder, or Sophia Sapho, and how he himself had written all the works by Diana Vaughan. Diana, he said, was an ordinary Protestant woman, a copy typist, the representative of an American typewriter manufacturer, an intelligent, active woman of elegant simplicity, as Protestant women generally are. He had begun to interest her in devilry; she was amused by it and became his accomplice. She took a liking to this tomfoolery, writing to bishops and cardinals, receiving letters from the private secretary of the Supreme Pontiff, informing the Vatican about Luciferian plots.
Diana, he said, was an ordinary Protestant woman, a copy typist, the representative of an American typewriter manufacturer, an intelligent, active woman of elegant simplicity, as Protestant women generally are.
«But,» continued Taxil, «we saw even Freemasons falling for our pretenses. When Diana revealed that the Grand Master of Charleston had appointed Adriano Lemmi to be his successor as Luciferian Supreme Pontiff, some Italian Masons, including a parliamentary deputy, took the news seriously. They were annoyed that Lemmi had not informed them, and they set up three independent Palladian Supreme Councils, in Sicily, Naples and Florence, naming Miss Vaughan as an honorary member. The infamous Monsieur Margiotta wrote that he had met Miss Vaughan, whereas it was I who spoke to him about a meeting that had never taken place, and he either pretended or actually believed he remembered it. The publishers themselves were hoaxed, but they have nothing to complain about, since I gave them the opportunity to publish works that can compete with The Thousand and One Nights.
«Gentlemen,» he continued, «when you understand you have been fooled, the best thing to do is to laugh with the audience. And you, Monsieur Abbé Garnier,» he said, pointing to one of his fiercest critics in the hall, «the angrier you get, the more ridiculous you become.»
«You’re a scoundrel!» shouted Garnier, waving his stick, while his friends tried to calm him.
«Then again,» Taxil said with a seraphic smile, «we cannot criticize those who believed in the devils that appeared in our initiation ceremonies. Do good Christians not believe that Satan took Jesus Christ himself to a mountaintop, from which he showed him all the kingdoms of the earth? And how did Satan show him all of them if the earth is round?»
«Quite right!» shouted some.
«No need for blasphemy,» shouted others.
Taxil was reaching his conclusion. «I confess, gentlemen, that I have committed infanticide. Palladism is now dead—its father has murdered it.»
The mayhem had reached its climax. Abbé Garnier stood on a seat and tried to address the audience, but his voice was lost in the raucous laughter of some and the angry shouts of others. Taxil remained on the platform where he had been speaking, proudly watching the crowd in uproar. It was his moment of glory. If he had wanted to be crowned king of hoaxers, he had achieved his purpose.
He gazed immovably at those protesting in front of him as they waved their fists or canes and shouted «Shame on you,» looking almost as if he didn’t understand. What did he have to feel ashamed of? The fact that everyone was talking about him?
Simonini was enjoying himself more than anyone as he thought about what was in store for Taxil over the coming days.
He would seek out Dalla Piccola for his money, but would not know where to find him. If he went to Auteuil, he’d find the house empty, or perhaps already occupied by someone else. He knew nothing about Dalla Piccola’s having an address in rue Maître-Albert. He didn’t know how to contact Fournier the notary, nor would he ever think of associating him with that person who, many years earlier, had falsified the Hugo letter. Boullan would be impossible to find. He had no idea that Hébuterne, whom he vaguely knew as a Masonic dignitary, had anything to do with these events, and was entirely unaware of the existence of Father Bergamaschi. In short, Taxil wouldn’t know whom to ask for his money, so Simonini could pocket the whole amount (less, unfortunately, the five-thousand-franc advance) instead of just half.
It was amusing to think of the poor rascal wandering around Paris looking for an abbé and a notary who never existed, for a Satanist and a Palladian whose bodies lay in a forgotten sewer, for a Bataille who, even when sober, would have nothing to tell him, and for a bundle of francs that had ended up in the wrong pocket. Reviled by the Catholics, viewed with suspicion by the Masons, who had every right to fear another about-face, perhaps also heavily in debt to his publishers, not knowing which way to turn.
But, thought Simonini, that charlatan from Marseilles deserved it.
26. The Final Solution
