Simonini found Gaviali sitting at a table with companions who seemed to share his regicidal ideas, almost all of them Italian exiles and almost all experts in explosives, or enthusiasts. Once those around the table had had a reasonable amount to drink, they held forth on the failings of great terrorists of the past. The infernal machine, with which Cadoudal had tried to assassinate Napoleon when he was first consul, was a mixture of saltpeter and grapeshot, which might have worked in the narrow back streets of the old capital but would be totally useless today (as indeed it had been even then). Fieschi, in order to assassinate Louis Philippe, had built a machine with eighteen barrels that fired at the same time, and had killed eighteen people, but not the king.
"The problem," said Gaviali, "is the composition of the explosive. Look at potassium chlorate. They decided to mix it with sulfur and charcoal to make gunpowder, but all they managed to do, once they'd built a factory to produce it, was to blow the whole place up. Then they decided that at least it could be used for making matches, but to light them you had to dip the chlorate-andsulfur match head in sulfuric acid. Not exactly easy. Until the Germans invented phosphorus matches more than thirty years ago, which burst into flame on friction."
"And what about picric acid?" said another. "They realized that it blew up when heated with potassium chlorate, and this led to a series of powders, each more explosive than the one before. Several experimenters were killed and the idea had to be abandoned. It would have been better with cellulose nitrate —"
* * *
. . . sitting at a table with companions who seemed
to share his regicidal ideas, almost all of them Italian
exiles and almost all experts in explosives.
* * *
"Of course."
"Look at what the old alchemists had to say. They discovered that a mixture of nitric acid and oil of turpentine, after it sat awhile, burst into flames spontaneously. It's been a hundred years since they discovered that when sulfuric acid, which absorbs water, is added to nitric acid, it almost always ignites."
"I prefer xyloidin. Combine nitric acid with starch or wood fiber—"
"It sounds as if you've just read that novel by Verne where he uses xyloidin to shoot a manned projectile to the moon. But today there's more interest in nitrobenzene and nitronaphthalene. Or if you treat paper and cardboard with nitric acid, you obtain nitramine, which is similar to xyloidin."
"All these products are unstable. Perhaps there's more interest today in guncotton — weight for weight, its explosive power is six times greater than that of gunpowder."
"But it's unreliable."
And so they continued for hours, always returning to the virtues of good, honest gunpowder. As for Simonini, it seemed that he was back in Sicily, in conversation with Ninuzzo.
After offering them a few jugs of wine, it was easy to rouse that bunch into hatred for Napoleon III, who was likely to oppose the now imminent Savoy invasion of Rome. The cause of a unified Italy required the death of the dictator. Simonini had the feeling that those drunkards didn't care much about the unification of Italy and were more interested in exploding a few good bombs. But they were also the sort of maniacs he was looking for.
"Orsini's attack failed," explained Simonini, "not because he couldn't carry it out but because the bombs were badly made. We now have someone who's prepared to risk the guillotine to throw a few bombs at the right moment, but we don't yet have a clear idea about the type of explosive to use, and my conversations with our friend Gaviali have convinced me that your group could be very useful."
"Who do you mean when you say 'we'?" asked one of the patriots.
Simonini gave the impression of hesitating, then came out with the story he had concocted to gain the trust of his student friends in Turin — that he represented the Alta Vendita and was one of the lieutenants of the elusive Nubius. But they could ask him no more, since the Carbonari were organized in such a way that each of them knew only their immediate superior. The problem was that you couldn't produce new bombs of assured effectiveness just like that; it required experiment after experiment, the work almost of an alchemist, mixing the right substances and testing them in the open countryside. He was able to offer them a place, right there in rue de la Huchette, where they wouldn't be disturbed, and all necessary money for expenses. As soon as the bombs were ready, the group need not be involved in the attack, but the premises would also be used to store handbills announcing the death of the emperor and explaining the attackers' purposes. Once Napoleon III was dead, the group would have to distribute the handbills in various parts of the city and leave some of them outside the offices of the main newspapers.
"You'll have no trouble. There's someone in high office who will look favorably upon the attack. One of our men working for the prefect of police is called Lacroix. I'm not sure he's completely reliable, so don't try to contact him. If he finds out who you are, he'd be quite capable of reporting you, just to get a promotion. You know what these double agents are like . . ."
The deal was accepted with enthusiasm, and Gaviali's eyes sparkled with delight. Simonini gave them the keys to the premises and a large sum of money for the initial purchases. A few days later, he went to visit the conspirators. It seemed the experiments were proceeding well. He took with him several hundred handbills produced by an obliging printer, gave them another sum of money for their expenses, cried "Long live united Italy — Rome or death!" and left.
That evening, as he was walking along rue Saint-Séverin, deserted at that hour, he thought he heard footsteps behind him. When he stopped, the sound behind him also stopped. He quickened his pace, and the sound grew louder and louder, until it was clear that somebody was not just tailing him, but closing in. All of a sudden he heard a gasp of breath at his shoulder, was struck violently and flung into impasse Salembrière, a passageway even narrower than rue du Chat qui Pêche, which led off from rue Saint-Séverin at that very point. His pursuer, it seemed, knew the area well and had chosen exactly the right moment and place. Flattened against the wall, all Simonini could see was the glint of a knife blade against his face. His assailant's features were hidden in the darkness, but he had no difficulty recognizing the voice, with its Sicilian accent, hissing, "Six years it's taken me to hunt you down, my good Father, but I've done it!"
It was the voice of Master Ninuzzo, whom Simonini was quite sure he had left with twenty inches of dagger in his stomach, at the powder magazine in Bagheria.
"I'm alive, you see, thanks to a merciful soul who was passing in those parts just after you and came to my rescue. I spent three months between life and death. There's a scar on my stomach that goes from one hip to the other . . . But as soon as I got up from my bed I began my search, looking for anyone who'd seen a priest of such and such an appearance. It turned out that someone had seen him at a café in Palermo talking to Notaio Musumeci and thought he looked very much like one of Garibaldi's men from Piedmont who was a friend of Colonel Nievo. Then I heard that Nievo had been lost at sea, as if his ship had disappeared into thin air, and I knew all too well how and why it had disappeared, and who'd done it. From there it was easy to trace him to the army of Piedmont, and then to Turin, and I spent a bitterly cold year in that city questioning everyone. Finally I found out that this Garibaldino's name was Simonini, who ran a notary's office. But he'd sold it, letting slip to the purchaser that he was leaving for Paris. I still had no money, and somehow — don't ask me how I did it — I got to Paris, except that I had no idea the city was so big. I was wandering about for a long time before I tracked you down. And I made my living on streets like these, holding a knife to the throat of any well-dressed gentleman who'd taken a wrong turn — one a day was enough to keep me alive. I always wandered these parts, imagining that someone like you would go to the tapis-francs, as they call them here, rather than to decent places. You should have grown a fine black beard if you didn't want to be recognized so easily."
It was at that time that Simonin
i had adopted his bearded bourgeois appearance, though he had to admit he had done far too little to cover his tracks.
"But I'm not here to tell you my whole history," Ninuzzo concluded. "All I want is to slash your stomach the same way you did mine. But I'll do it properly this time. No one passes here at night — just like that powder magazine at Bagheria."
The moon had risen, and Simonini could now see Ninuzzo's bulldog nose and evil, glistening eyes.
"Ninuzzo," he had the presence of mind to say, "what you don't know is that I did what I did in obedience to orders — orders from very high up, and from an authority so sacred that I had to carry them out without any care for my own personal feelings. And it is in obedience to those same orders that I am here, to prepare other actions in support of throne and altar."
Simonini was panting breathlessly as he spoke, but saw that the point of the knife was very gradually moving away from his face. "You have dedicated your life to your king," he continued, "and you must understand that there are missions — sacred missions, let me say — when it is justifiable to carry out an act that could never otherwise be pardoned. You understand?"
Master Ninuzzo did not understand, but indicated that vengeance was no longer his only purpose. "My stomach's been empty for too long, and seeing you dead isn't enough. I'm fed up living in
the dark. Since I caught up with you I've seen you going into gentlemen's restaurants. Shall we say I'll let you live in exchange for a sum of money each month, enough for me to eat and sleep like you, and better than you."
"Master Ninuzzo, I promise you more than a small sum each month. I'm preparing an attack on the French emperor — and remember, your king lost his throne because of Napoleon's secret help to Garibaldi. You know a great deal about gunpowder. You should meet the group of valiant men who are working together in rue de la Huchette to prepare what can truly be called an infernal machine. If you join up with them, you'll not only take part in an act that will go down in history, while also proving your extraordinary ability as a gunpowder expert, but — remembering that this attack is being supported by people at the highest level — you'll have your share of a reward that will make you rich for the rest of your days."
The mention of gunpowder was enough to calm the rage that had festered in Ninuzzo since that night at Bagheria, and Simonini realized he had him in the palm of his hand when he asked, "So, what do I have to do?"
"It's simple. In two days' time, at around six o'clock, go to this address, knock, enter the warehouse and say that Lacroix sent you. Our friends will be expecting you. But you must wear a carnation in the buttonhole of your jacket so they'll recognize you. I will arrive around seven —with money."
"I'll be there," said Ninuzzo. "But remember — if it's a trick, I know where you live."
The next morning, Simonini returned to Gaviali and warned him that time was growing short. They should all be there at six the following afternoon. First a Sicilian explosives expert would arrive, sent by Simonini to check on their progress. He would appear shortly afterward, then Monsieur Lacroix himself, to give all necessary guarantees.
Then he went to Lagrange and told him he had information about a conspiracy to kill the emperor. He knew that the plotters would be meeting at six o'clock the following day in rue de la Huchette to hand over the explosives to the people they were working for.
"But beware," Simonini said. "You once told me that out of every ten members of a secret society, three of them are spies working for us, six are fools and one is dangerous. Well, you'll find only one spy there, which is me. Eight of them are fools, and the one who's really dangerous will be wearing a carnation. And since he's also a danger to me, I'd like a small disturbance to break out, and this fellow not to be arrested but killed on the spot. Believe me, it is a way of making sure this business causes as little fuss as possible. Heaven help us if he starts talking, even to one of your people."
"I accept what you say, Simonini," said Lagrange. "The man will be eliminated."
Ninuzzo arrived in rue de la Huchette at six o'clock wearing a fresh carnation. Gaviali and the others proudly showed him their bombs, and Simonini arrived half an hour later announcing the arrival of Lacroix. At six forty-five the police burst in. Simonini shouted that they'd been betrayed and pointed a pistol at the police, but he fired in the air. The police responded by shooting Ninuzzo in the chest. And since everything had to be done properly, they also killed another conspirator. Ninuzzo was rolling on the ground, uttering colorful Sicilian blasphemies, and Simonini, pretending once more to shoot at the police, delivered the coup de grâce.
Lagrange and his men had caught Gaviali and the others redhanded, with the prototypes of half-constructed bombs and a pile of handbills explaining why they were making them. During a heated interrogation, Gaviali and his companions gave the name of the mysterious Lacroix who had betrayed them — or so they thought. One more reason why Lagrange decided to get rid of him. The police report suggested he'd been involved in arresting the conspirators and had been killed by a shot fired by one of the villains. An honorable commendation.
As for the conspirators, it seemed pointless to attract publicity with a trial. There were repeated rumors of attacks on the emperor at that time, as Lagrange explained to Simonini, and it was thought that many of these stories were not genuine but had been cunningly circulated by republican agents to encourage fanatics to follow suit. It was useless to spread the idea that attacks on the life of Napoleon III had become a popular sport. The conspirators were therefore shipped off to Cayenne, where they would die of malarial fever.
Saving the life of the emperor had been most profitable. While the Joly assignment was worth 10,000 francs, discovering the conspiracy brought Simonini another 30,000. Rental of the warehouse and purchase of the bomb-making materials had cost him 5,000 francs, leaving him a clear 35,000—more than a tenth of that 300,000-franc capital he was hoping for.
Though pleased with what had happened to Ninuzzo, he felt rather sorry for Gaviali. He was, after all, a good sort who had placed his trust in him. But anyone involved in conspiracies has to accept the risks, and must trust no one.
And it was a shame about Lacroix, who after all had done no wrong. But his widow would get a good pension out of it.
12
A NIGHT IN PRAGUE
4th April 1897
All that remained was for me to approach Guédon, the man Joly had spoken about. The bookshop in rue de Beaune was run by a wizened old maid, Mademoiselle Beuque, always dressed in an immense black woolen skirt, with a bonnet, like that of Little Red Riding Hood, which half covered her face —and a good thing too.
I immediately came across Guédon, a skeptic who looked mockingly upon the world around him. I like unbelievers. Guédon immediately responded favorably to Joly's plea, saying he would send him food and a little money. Then he joked about the friend he was about to help. Why write a book and run the risk of prison when those who read books were already republicans by nature, and those who supported the dictator were illiterate peasants who'd been granted universal suffrage by the grace of God?
The Fourierists? They're good people, but how can you believe in a prophet who declares that in a new world oranges would be grown in Warsaw, seas would become lemonade, men would grow tails and incest and homosexuality would be recognized as the most natural human impulses?
"So why do you mix with them?" I asked.
"Because they're still the only honest people standing up against Napoleon's infamous dictatorship," he replied.
"You see that fine lady over there? She is Juliette Lamessine, one of the most influential women in Countess d'Agoult's salon, and with her husband's money she's trying to establish her own salon in rue de Rivoli. She's charming, intelligent, a writer of considerable talent. An invitation to her house would be something indeed."
Guédon pointed out another tall, handsome, imposing figure. "That's Toussenel, the celebrated author of L'Esprit des bêtes. He's a socialist, a
staunch republican and madly in love with Juliette, who won't deign to look at him. But he has the most brilliant mind here."
Toussenel spoke to me about capitalism, which he said was poisoning modern society.
"And who are the capitalists? The Jews, the rulers of our time. The revolution last century cut off the head of Louis Capet. This century's revolution ought to cut off the head of Moses. I shall write a book about it. Who are the Jews? They're all those who suck the blood out of the defenseless, the people. They're Protestants, Freemasons. And, of course, the people of Judah."
"But Protestants are not Jews," I ventured.
"Jew and Protestant are the same," Toussenel said. "The English Methodists, the German Pietists, the Swiss and the Dutch all learn to read the will of God from the same book as the Jews — the Bible, a story of incest and massacres and barbarous wars, where the only way to win is through treachery and deception, where kings have men murdered so they can take their wives, where women who call themselves saints enter the beds of enemy generals and cut off their heads. Cromwell had the head of his king cut off while quoting the Bible. Malthus, who denied the children of the poor the right to life, was steeped in the Bible. It's a race that spends its time recalling its slavery, and is always ready to yield to the cult of the Golden Calf, ignoring every sign of divine wrath. The battle against the Jews ought to be the main purpose of every socialist worthy of the name. I am not talking about communists — their founder is a Jew. The problem is exposing the conspiracy of money. Why does an apple in a Paris restaurant cost a hundred times more than in Normandy? There are unscrupulous races who live on the flesh of others, merchant races like the ancient Phoenicians and Carthaginians. And today it's the English and the Jews."