In one year I lost three men on
anarchist duty, among the victims being my most valuable helper, Henri
Brisson. Poor Brisson's fate was an example of how a man may follow a
perilous occupation for months with safety, and then by a slight
mistake bring disaster on himself. At the last gathering Brisson
attended he received news of such immediate and fateful import that on
emerging from the cellar where the gathering was held, he made
directly for my residence instead of going to his own squalid room in
the Rue Falgarie. My concierge said that he arrived shortly after one
o'clock in the morning, and it would seem that at this hour he could
easily have made himself acquainted with the fact that he was
followed. Still, as there was on his track that human panther, Felini,
it is not strange poor Brisson failed to elude him.
Arriving at the tall building in which my flat was then situated,
Brisson rang the bell, and the concierge, as usual, in that strange
state of semi-somnolence which envelops concierges during the night,
pulled the looped wire at the head of his bed, and unbolted the door.
Brisson assuredly closed the huge door behind him, and yet the moment
before he did so, Felini must have slipped in unnoticed to the
stone-paved courtyard.
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