UMBERTO ECO : THE PRAGUE CEMETERY (57 page)

"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.

 

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.

"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

10th November 1898

It is now a year and a half since I rid myself of Taxil, Diana and Dalla Piccola. If I was ill, I am recovered. Thanks to autohypnosis, or to Doctor Froïde. And yet I have been feeling anxious over recent months. If I were religious, I'd say it was guilt and that I was being tormented. But remorse for what, and tormented by whom?

The same evening on which I had the pleasure of hoaxing Taxil, I celebrated in happy tranquillity. I was sorry only that there was no one with whom I could share my victory, but I am quite used to my own company. I went to Brébant-Vachette, frequented by the diaspora of those who used to eat at Magny. With all I had earned from the Taxil debacle, I could afford anything. The maître recognized me, but more importantly I recognized him. He held forth on the
salade Francilion
, created after the triumph of the play by Alexandre Dumas fils — good God, how old that makes me feel. The potatoes are cooked in stock, cut into slices and, while still warm, dressed with salt, pepper, olive oil and Orléans vinegar, plus half a glass of white wine (Château d'Yquem if possible) and chopped
fines herbs
. At the same time, some very large mussels are cooked in a court bouillon with a stick of celery. Everything is combined and lightly tossed, and covered with thin slices of truffle cooked in champagne. This should be done two hours ahead to allow the dish to cool to just the right temperature before serving.

Yet I am not at ease, and feel I must resume this diary to clarify my state of mind, as if I were still under Doctor Froïde's care.

Disturbing things keep occurring and I live in a state of anxiety. In particular, I'm anxious to know who the Russian is down there in the sewer. He or they — perhaps there were two — was or were here, in these rooms on the 12th of April. Has one of them been back since? On several occasions I have been unable to find something — a small object, a pen, a bundle of papers — and then have found it in a place where I could have sworn I had never put it. Has someone been rummaging around, moving things, looking for something? What?

"Russian" can mean only Rachkovsky, but the man's a sphinx. He's been here twice, always asking me for what he describes as new, unpublished material inherited from my grandfather. And I have been playing for time, partly so that I can finish putting together a satisfactory dossier, partly to whet his appetite.

Last time he said he couldn't wait any longer. He wanted to know whether it was simply a question of price. "I'm not greedy," I told him. "The truth is my grandfather leftme some papers that recorded in full what was said that night in the Prague cemetery, but I don't have them here with me. I have to leave Paris to get them."

"Go then," said Rachkovsky, and he made a vague comment about some trouble I might have from developments in the Dreyfus affair. What does he know about it?

The fact that Dreyfus had been packed offto Devil's Island had done nothing to calm the controversy. A campaign had been launched by those who thought he was innocent — the Dreyfusards, as they were called — and graphologists have come forward to challenge Bertillon's evidence.

It all began near the end of '95, when Sandherr retired from service (apparently suffering from progressive paralysis, or something of the kind) and was replaced by someone called Picquart. This Picquart turned out to be a busybody and immediately began reexamining the Dreyfus affair, even though the case had been closed several months earlier. Then, last March, he found in one of the embassy wastepaper baskets (once again) the draftof a telegram to be sent by the German military attaché to Esterhazy. Nothing compromising, but why was this military attaché in contact with a French officer? Picquart investigated Esterhazy, looked for samples of his handwriting and realized that the major's writing was similar to that of Dreyfus's
bordereau
.

I came to hear about it when the news was leaked to La Libre Parole, and Drumont took exception to this meddler who wanted to reopen a case that had been so happily resolved.

"I understand he went to report the matter to Generals Boisdeffre and Gonse, who were fortunately not interested. Our generals are made of sterner stuff."

Around November I met Esterhazy at the newspaper offices. He was very nervous and asked to speak with me. He came to my house accompanied by a Major Henry.

"It is rumored, Simonini, that the handwriting on the
bordereau
is mine," Esterhazy said. "You copied it from one of Dreyfus's letters or notes, didn't you?"

"But of course. The sample had been given to me by Sandherr."

"I know, but why didn't Sandherr call me to that meeting as well? Was it to make sure I couldn't check the sample of Dreyfus's handwriting?"

"I did what I was told to do."

"I know, I know. But it's in your interest to help me sort out this mystery. If, for some obscure reason, you've been used as part of a plot, someone might think it's a good idea to get rid of a dangerous witness like you. Which means you're involved as well."

I should never have allowed myself to get mixed up with the army. I wasn't at all happy. Then Esterhazy explained what he wanted me to do. He gave me a sample of a letter from Panizzardi, the Italian military attaché, and the text of a letter I had to produce, addressed to the German military attaché, in which Panizzardi referred to Dreyfus's collaboration.

"Major Henry," he explained, "will be responsible for finding this document and passing it on to General Gonse."

I did my job, Esterhazy paid me a thousand francs, and then I don't know what happened, but toward the end of '96 Picquart was transferred to the Fourth Fusiliers in Tunisia.

However, at the same time that I was busy getting rid of Taxil, it seems that Picquart had managed to pull a few strings, and things became more complicated. It was, of course, unofficial news that somehow reached the press, but the Dreyfusard newspapers (which were few) took it as being certain, while the anti-Dreyfusard press talked of defamation. Some telegrams appeared, addressed to Picquart, from which it seemed he was the author of the infamous telegram from the Germans to Esterhazy. As far as I could understand, Esterhazy and Henry were behind it. It was a nice game of tit for tat, where there was no need to invent accusations because all you had to do was throw back at your opponent what he'd sent to you. Heavens above, espionage and counterespionage are far too serious to be leftin the hands of soldiers. Professionals like Lagrange and Hébuterne would never have made such a mess, but what can you expect from people who are good enough for the intelligence service one day and for the Fourth Fusiliers in Tunisia the next, or who pass from the papal Zouaves to the Foreign Legion?

Most of all, this last move was of little use, and an investigation of Esterhazy was opened. What if, to put himself above suspicion, he were to say it was I who had written the
bordereau
?

I slept badly for a year. Every night I heard noises in the house. I was tempted to go down to the shop, but was worried I might find a Russian there.