Translation:A Judas!

There’s no creature on earth more despised than the rat. People have always felt an instinctive revulsion for this kind of scum—just like for the rotten stuff.

And goddamn it, that contempt is well deserved! But still, why does it stop at the rat?

Why doesn’t it come crashing down just as hard on the heads of those who pay him? Why aren’t the big-time crooks who breed him just as loathed as he is?

It fucking doesn’t make a lick of sense!

A Dupuy, no matter how puffed-up he is — a Casimir, no matter how full of himself — they stink just as much as the traitor who comes around with a sweet-talking mouth, shaking your hand, eating at your table… only to go off and quickly spill whatever slipped into his ear, whether in confidence or by accident.

Turally, the ones who have the most to fear ​ from rats are those who instill the greatest fear in the high-class wankers: that is, the anarchists.

The governing class trips them up as much as they can. But the companions have sharp instincts: most of the time, they manage to dodge the cops. Still, they’re sent after so often that it’s no surprise if, one day or another, someone ends up falling into the trap and welcoming one of those vermin like a brother.

That’s exactly what happened recently in London. A few months ago, a little twenty-year-old guy showed up in the French quarter; he looked so down-and-out that, moved by pity, one companion gave him a place to sleep while another fed him. That went on for three or four months. The bastard looked like such an innocent — didn’t pretend to be an anarchist, but seemed eager to learn — that no one suspected a thing.

A few days ago, it came out that this little brat was a stool pigeon, and, sure enough, the companions who had taken him in and fed him were the first ones he ratted out.

To be doing a job like that at twenty — it’s damn sad! At that age, your heart’s usually overflowing with honesty, and your veins are pumping red, generous blood. But instead? Playing the traitor at twenty… Ugh!

So what to do? Smash his face in? Break a bone or two? Or try to get him to spill everything by promising not to hurt him?

The companions who had uncovered the truth chose the last option, thinking it’d be the most useful… if it worked. They brought in the little weasel who, seeing he was burned, didn’t need much convincing to spill the beans. He talked…

Here’s his story — slightly shortened, because for now, in the interest of the movement, it’s best not to make everything he revealed public:

“Not being happy with my family, I left them and came to London. I couldn’t find work here, so I left in May 1894, heading on foot to Cardiff. Once there, I wanted to ship out, but having never worked at sea, it was impossible. After about two weeks, the French consul in Cardiff asked the captain of a coastal vessel heading to Redon to repatriate me. I arrived in Redon a few days after Carnot’s death; I was arrested as an anarchist, though I wasn’t one, and spent 19 days in jail. Once released, I walked to La Rochelle. That’s where I was approached: an agent came up to me and took me to the police station, where I was well received. The commissaire, a man named Martin, living at 16 rue Gutton, sent me to an inn where I stayed for two days at his expense. After all the misery I’d been through, I was glad to finally eat my fill. ​ The way I was treated made me think they’d had their eyes on me since Redon. After those two days, the commissaire offered me a deal: go back to London and keep an eye on the anarchists — for 200 francs a month. I accepted!

“The commissaire and I took the train to Paris, where we arrived on August 8. He first took me to the Ministry of the Interior and introduced me to Dupuy, who looked me over for a moment and asked for my name^[1]. From there, we went to the police headquarters to see Lépine, who questioned me and then phoned Fédée. Fédée came to get me and kept me locked up all day in the archives room, under surveillance by agents. That evening, he had me escorted to the train at the Saint-Lazare station. Before that, he had given me 100 francs along with instructions: I was to write to him every two days; he told me to tell the anarchists I had just come from America and that I’d look good in their eyes if I added that, back in Cardiff, a few sailors and I had beaten up the captain.

“The next day, August 9, I was in London. I spent three weeks without hanging around anyone; I met V… by chance, and only later did I start slipping into anarchist circles.

“In early November, I was called back to Paris. Since the trip coincided with Fédée being dismissed, I didn’t see anyone; they reimbursed me for the trip, and I returned.

“Three weeks later, I made my second trip. I traveled with the little M. all the way to Dieppe, where he was arrested. Eight days earlier, I had written a report saying he was planning to leave, though I didn’t know the exact date. I suppose someone else also reported his departure — and mine too — because in Dieppe, the police commissaire searched the train several times looking for me, all while muttering: ‘But that young man?...’ He even spoke to me directly, but I bluffed my way through. Anyway, if he had arrested me, I’d only have had to tell him to contact André, and I would’ve been released right away. When I got to Paris, I told André — Fédée’s replacement — about the incident. He mocked the commissaire and said, ‘They’re so damn stupid!’ He also told me young M… had been released^[2].

“André is a man about 1.85 meters tall, recognizable by his long beard. I gave him the messages I had brought from London — and the replies…” ​

"The day before I left, they asked me if I knew anything about bomb factories said to exist in St Ouen and especially in Courbevoie. I didn’t know anything, and I said so. I’m convinced that the arrest of the Galan family and others is linked to this bomb business, and that the burglary stories were just a smokescreen to fool the public.

"They gave me the names of a series of anarchists and told me to keep a closer eye on them. These were…

"Talking about other rats, I said I planned to ‘burn’ them… They agreed, telling me: ‘The more you burn, the safer you’ll be.’

"On this second trip, my salary was raised from 200 to 250 francs a month. On top of that, I was given 400 francs, with which I bought stuff in Paris. My little shop — which I claimed my family had set up for me — was supposed to be my cover, because up to that point, I hadn’t done anything. When I claimed to have found a job in the ‘City’, it was a lie: all I did was go to the post office and wander around during the hours I was supposedly working.

"I sent my correspondence to this address: A.41 — poste restante, Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, Paris. If I’d needed to call, I would have asked for André, police commissaire, 3rd brigade; but I didn’t use that way — it was too expensive, and correspondence costs were on me…

"Here in London, I got in touch with Flood, a British agent; I went to see him at New Scotland Yard under a pretext. He introduced me to Melville, who asked me for information… He also asked questions about F. and C. I saw him again… and he strongly advised me to keep my eyes and ears open…

"I kept seeing Flood from time to time in a public house on the right side of Vilers Street, near Charing Cross station…

"In Paris, I had seen Puybaraud; he urged me to behave myself and said my future was secure. When I mentioned my military service, he told me not to worry about it.

"As I said, I was supposed to write every two days, but often I had little to report. The reports I submitted were about… As for the instructions given on December 10, they boiled down to… ​ "It was when I got exposed that I could have done real harm to the anarchists…

"I was never concerned with anarchist ideas — they left me indifferent. I saw my job, even though it disgusted me, simply as a way to live without doing anything. I did just enough to avoid getting cut off by the police headquarters, and if I ended up getting more involved, it was less by my own initiative than by random circumstances.

"As proof of what I’ve said, I’m leaving in the companions’ hands a letter from the police headquarters, received on December 21, addressed to cotin at X—."

Blistering hell, there’s a hell of a lot to chew on in that copper’s statements. But short on paper, I’ll stick to the facts. Here’s a copy of the letter mentioned above:

Paris, 20 December 1894

COTTANCE

Urgently report everything that may have occurred in Dieppe regarding the woman A… Who gave her money for the trip?

What messages was she carrying to London?

What did she bring back from Paris? List the items.

Gather all possible information and report everything you can find out on this matter.

---

Enclosed: 50 francs. Please confirm receipt.

---

Provide information on W…, who serves as contact for L… and D… — For that, always refer to the notes from December 10.

The 50-franc money order mentioned in this letter was issued on 20 December by Bureau No. 32, under No. 70.

Once the rat had spilled all he could, the companions kept their word: they let him clear out.

Will he be kept on? Probably not — the bastards at the top have no use for a burned-out mule. In any case, decent folks can now steer clear of him, thanks to the portrait (pasted on page 9). The bastard is of average height, with a flutey voice — like a girl’s voice.