The Salt Smugglers (4 page)

But to what avail is all this background preparation? Will they only allow me to set the scene for the events in the fashion of Froissart or Monstrelet? — They will probably claim that this is how Walter Scott goes about things, — and he is after all a novelist. I should probably just restrict myself to giving a straightforward synopsis of the history of the abbé de Bucquoy ... if and when I find it.

I had reason to hope: M. R*** was going to take matters into his hands; — there were merely eight more days to wait. Besides, in the interim I still might be able to locate the book in some other public library.

Unfortunately they were all closed, — except for the Mazarine. I therefore went off to disturb the silence of its magnificent and chilly halls. The library has a catalogue which is quite complete and which you are allowed to consult on your own; in ten minutes, it can help you solve any question whatsoever. But the staff on duty is so competent there is no need to bother the reference librarians or even to consult the catalogue. I addressed myself to one of them: somewhat taken aback, he turned my request over in his mind and replied, « We don't have the book ... but I have a vague idea...»

The curator is man well-known for his wit and encyclopedic erudition. He recognized me. « What do you need the abbé de Bucquoy for? For an opera libretto? I remember that charming opera you wrote ten years ago; the music was delightful. The second one was even more admirable. What a marvelous actress you had there ... But these days the censors would never allow you to do a play involving an
abbé
.

— I need the book for something historical I'm working on. »

He gave me a long, hard look, of the sort one might cast at someone requesting books on alchemy. « Oh I see, he said at last, it's for an historical novel à la Dumas.

— I have never written an historical novel, nor do I intend to: I have absolutely no desire to cost the newspapers for which I write four or five hundred francs a day in fines ... If I find I am incapable of writing straight history, I'll just print the book as is. »

He nodded his head and said, « We have it.

— Oh?

— I know where it is. It's part of the collection of books that came to us from Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Which is why it is not yet catalogued ... It must be somewhere in the basement.

— Ah, if you would be kind enough to ...

— I'll try to locate it for you; just give me a few days.

— I'm starting in on my project the day after tomorrow.

— It won't be easy: there are piles and piles of books down there and we'll probably have to turn the place upside down. But the book is here: I have seen it with my own eyes.

— Just be careful about the books in the Saint-German-des-Prés collection, — on account of the rats ... A number of new species have been sighted, including the gray Russian rat which arrived in the wake of the Cossacks. True, this Russian rat managed to destroy the English rat, but now they are talking about a new
rodent
that has recently appeared on the scene. It's called the
Athens mouse
and has apparently been multiplying like mad ever since it arrived here in the crates that were shipped from the university France has recently established in Athens ... »

The curator dismissed my fears with a smile and took his leave, promising me his full attention to my request.

Another idea came to mind: the Bibliothèque de l'Arsenal is closed for the month, but I know the curator. — He is in town; he has the keys. He has been most
helpful to me in the past; I'm sure he would make an exception for me and allow me to see the book which is after all only a minor item in his library's vast holdings.

I was on my way to see him. But a dreadful thought stopped me dead in my tracks. It was the memory of a fantastic tale I had heard ages ago.

The predecessor of the current curator had been a celebrated old man who was passionate about books; it was with great regret that he was finally forced to give up his cherished seventeenth-century editions late in life, but death carried him off in the end and the new curator took possession of his lodgings.

The latter had just gotten married and was sleeping in peace next to his young wife when he was suddenly woken up, at one o'clock in the morning, by the violent ringing of the doorbell. The maid's quarters were on another floor of the house. The curator gets up and goes to open the door.

Nobody.

He tries to figure out who it was: everybody is asleep in the house; — the concierge has seen nothing.

The next night, at the very same hour, the bell again goes off with a repeated series of rings.

Again, nobody at the door. The curator, who had been a teacher shortly before this, concludes that it is probably some aggrieved schoolboy who has hidden himself in the house, — or who has tied a cat to the bell by means of a slip knot attached to its tail ...

On the third night, the curator instructs his concierge to remain on the landing with a candle until the fatal hour has passed; he promises him a reward if the bell does not ring.

At one in the morning, the concierge is horrified to see that the cord of the bell is jerking up and down on its own and that its red tassel is crazily dancing across the wall. The curator in turn opens his bedroom door only to witness the concierge making signs of the cross in front of him.

« It is the soul of your predecessor who has returned to haunt you.

— Did you see him?

— No, but you can't see ghosts in candlelight.

— Well, let's try again tomorrow without candlelight.

— Sir, you can go ahead and try on your own ... »

After having given the matter further consideration, the curator decided not to try to get a glimpse of the ghost. They probably had a mass said for the ancient bibliophile, for the phenomenon never repeated itself again.

And I was about to go ring this same bell! ... Who knows whether the ancient ghost himself might not greet me at the door?

Besides, this library brings back many sad memories. I have known three of its curators over time, — the first of these was the original of the supposed ghost; the second, ever so brilliant, ever so generous, was one of my literary mentors; the last one was so helpful in allowing me access to his fine collections of engravings that I presented him with an edition of
Faust
illustrated with German engravings!

No, it would be most difficult for me to return to the Arsenal.

Besides, there are still several rare book dealers to visit: there's France, then Merlin, then Techener ...

M. France said to me: « I know the book well ; it must have crossed my hands at least ten times ... With luck,
you're sure to find it on the quais: that's where I picked it up myself for ten sous. »

The idea of combing the bookstalls on the quais for days on end in search of an item officially classified as rare ... I decided it made more sense to try Merlin's bookshop. « The Bucquoi? I was informed by his successor, of course I'm familiar with it, I even have a copy of it on hand ... »

My joy may easily be imagined. The book dealer brought me a volume whose format was the appropriate duodecimo; except that it was far too fat (949 pages). Upon opening the book, I discovered it bore the title,
In Praise of the Count de Bucquoy
. Around the portrait facing the title page, there was the Latin inscription: COMES. A. BVCQVOY.

My illusions were soon dashed. It was a history of the Bohemian uprising, with a portrait of a Bucquoy whose armor and beard clearly dated from the Louis XIII period. He was probably an ancestor of the poor abbé. — Still, it was a book worth owning: family features often reproduce themselves over time. Here is a Bucquoy born in the Artois who goes off to Bohemia to fight; — imagination and energy are written all over his face, as is a certain tendency toward whimsy. The abbé de Bucquoy no doubt followed after him as dreamers follow after men of action.

As I was on my way to Techener's to try my luck one last time, I stopped in front of a bird-seller's shop. A woman of a certain age, decked out in a hat and dressed with a threadbare elegance indicative of better days, was trying to sell her canary and its cage to the shop-owner.

He replied that he was already having a hard time just trying to feed the birds he had on hand. The woman pleaded with him. He told her that her canary was worthless. — The old lady heaved a sigh and trudged off.

I had spent all my money on the Bohemian exploits of the count of Bucquoy; otherwise I would have said to the bird-seller: « Call that woman back and tell her that you will buy her canary after all ... »

The fact that I was unable to do this filled me with remorse, — but when it comes to the Bucquoys, I am obviously pursued by the Fates.

M. Techener said to me: « I no longer have the book you're looking for, but I know a copy of it is soon going to be auctioned off in a lot of items from the library of a book collector.

— What is his name? ...

— He prefers to be known as X; his name will not be listed in the auction catalogue.

— But if I wanted to buy the book now? ...

— Books that have already been catalogued and sorted out into lots are never sold in advance. The auction will take place on November 11th. »

November 11th!

Yesterday I received a note from M. R***, the librarian to whom I had been introduced at the Bibliothèque Nationale. He had not forgotten about me and was writing to inform me of the same auction. Except that according to him, the auction had been moved back to November 20th.

What to do between now and then? — Who knows, the way things are going, the price of the book may well go sky-high ...

OBLIGATORY DIGRESSION JOURNEY TO VERSAILLES THE TALKING SEAL. — VISIT TO THE OFFICE OF THE ATTORNEY GENERAL

I'm afraid I'm really imposing on my audience's patience with all my futile peregrinations in search of the abbé de Bucquoy. Still, readers of newspaper serials should no longer expect their attention to be grabbed as it once was by romantic adventures; back then, we were at full liberty to paint love scenes as we saw fit.

I have learned that at this very moment a newspaper is under investigation because it printed the description of a passion, — a very genuine passion for that matter, — that was evoked in the course of the narrative of a journey to Greenland.

This might well prevent me from entertaining you with a very curious episode which I have just observed at Versailles, — where I had traveled in order to see whether the library of this city contained the work I am in search of.

The library is situated in one of the buildings of the castle. And I was able to verify the fact that, — like many of the Parisian libraries, — it was still closed for the summer holidays.

As I made my way back from the castle along the allée de Saint-Cloud, I found myself in the midst of a fair which is annually held here during this month.

My eyes were automatically drawn to an immense billboard advertising the performance of an educated seal.

I had seen this same seal in Paris the previous year, — and I had admired the eloquence with which he said
pappa-mamma
and had nuzzled up to his young trainer, — all of whose commands he faithfully followed.

I have always had a tender spot for seals, ever since I heard the following anecdote recounted in Holland:

This is not a novel, — if one is to believe the Dutch. — These animals act as
guide dogs
to fishermen; their heads are canine, their eyes bovine, and their whiskers feline. — During fishing season, they follow alongside the boats and herd in the fish when the fishermen are having a hard time catching them.

These mammals are quite sensitive to the winter cold and every fisherman has his own seal whom he allows to flop around in his house and who, more often than not, curls up by the hearth, waiting for a morsel bubbling in the pot.

Once there was a fisherman and his wife. They were very poor, — it had been a bad year and there was not enough food to go around for their family. The fisherman said to his wife: « This seal is eating all the food of our children. I think I'll take him out to the sea and throw him back in. He'll join up with his companions; during the winter, they all retire to into their sea-caves on beds of algae and manage to find fish to eat in feeding-grounds known only to them. »

The fisherman's wife pleaded with her husband to have mercy on the seal. — But soon the thought that her children might die of hunger caused her to desist.

At the break of dawn the fisherman placed the seal in the bottom of his boat and, having sailed several leagues out to sea, deposited it on an island. The seal started gamboling about with his fellow creatures without realizing that the boat was leaving him in the lurch.