— 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 entert
aining 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.
THE STORY OF A SEAL
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.
Upon returning to his house, the fisherman sighed at the loss of his companion. — But the seal had beaten him back home and lay there waiting for him, drying out in front of the hearth. — The family put up with their hunger for another few days, but unable to stand his children’s cries of distress, the fisherman grew stronger in his resolve.
This time he sailed far further out to sea and tossed the seal into the waves, far from the shore.
With his fins, shaped almost like hands, the seal repeatedly tried to grasp hold of the gunwales of the boat. Exasperated, the fisherman lifted up one of his oars and slammed it down, smashing one of the fins. The seal let out a plaintive cry that was almost human and disappeared into the waves, stained red with his blood.
The fisherman returned home heart-broken. — This time there was no seal to greet him at the hearth.
But that same night, the fisherman heard cries in the street. He thought that someone was being murdered and rushed out to help.
There was the seal on his doorstep. It had dragged itself to his house and was whimpering piteously, — holding the bloodied stump of its fin skyward.
They took the seal in, dressed its wound, and never again did they think of exiling it from the family hearth; — for from that moment on, the catch had gotten much better.
There is no way that this legend could seem dangerous to you. — It contains not a single mention of the word love.
Yet I feel quite ambivalent about disclosing what it was I overheard at the seal exhibit at the Versailles fair. I’ll leave it up to you to evaluate the dangers that a narrative of this sort might represent.
I was, for openers, rather surprised not to discover the seal whom I had seen the previous year. The one currently on display is of another color altogether and far plumper.
There were two soldiers there from camp Sabory, — a sergeant and a fusilier, both of whom were admiring the seal in the idiom of their regiment, in this case a blend of Alsatian and military slang.
Expertly following the baton movements of his trainer, the seal had already executed a number of tricks in the water. The sergeant had cast into the pool one of those disdainful glances that are proof that a man has seen many educated seals in his time:
THE SERGEANT: I bet you couldn’t leap around like that in the waterrrs of the sea.
THE FUSILIER: Well that would probably depend. I reckon I could if the water wasn’t too cold and I was wearing a fur jacket like this seal.
THE SERGEANT: What do you mean by a furrr jacket?
THE FUSILIER: Go ahead sir and just touch it.
(The sergeant prepares to feel the seal.)
THE TRAINER: No you don’t! This seal is ferocious when he’s not fed ...
THE SERGEANT, disdainfully: I’ve seen seals in Algierrrs that were three or four times longer; true, they didn’t have furrr, but they did have scales ... In fact I don’t think this kind of seal exists in Afrrikerr!
THE TRAINER: My apologies, Sarge; this here seal was caught in Cape Verde.
THE SERGEANT: Oh, so he was captured in Cape Verrrde , was he? ... well, that changes everything ... I guess the men who pulled this fish out of the waterrr . . . must have had a tough time of it! ...
THE TRAINER: As a matter of fact, Sarge, it was me and my brother ... And yes, he was not pleasant to the touch.
THE SERGEANT, to the fusilier: You see what I told you.1
THE FUSILIER, nonplussed by his line of argument, yet nonetheless resigned: You’re right, Sarge, all the way.
His vanity flattered, the sergeant offered a few coins to see the seal having lunch, for his midday meal depended on the liberality of the visitors.
Soon, the other spectators also having chipped in, a suitable number of herrings had been collected so that the seal was now ready to show off his tricks in the green-painted pool.
« He’s approaching the edge of the pool, said the trainer. He’s sniffing out the herrings to see if they are fresh ... If they are not, he’ll refuse to put on a good show. »
The seal seemed to be satisfied and proceeded to say Pappa and Mamma with a Northern accent whose intonations nonetheless did not interfere with intelligibility of the syllables.
« He’s talking Dutch, said the sergeant. I thought you said he had been caught in Cape Verrrde!
— True enough. But even when they swim south they don’t lose their accent ... These are trips they take during the summer, for health reasons, then they return back north, — unless, that is, they are caught, as was the case with this one, so they can get to visit Versailles. »
After the lessons in phonetics, each of which was rewarded by the ingurgitation of a herring, it was time for a display of gymnastics; — the seal stood up on his tail, whose symmetrical flanges almost resemble human feet; then executed a number of flips and pivots through the water, guided by his trainer’s baton and by the promise of further herrings.
I admired how much the spirit of the North was at work in these creatures, hybrid though they were. They will only bow to authority if provided with certain guarantees.
Once the exhibition was over, the trainer showed us the wall where he had stretched out the sealskin which had been on display in Paris last year. The fusilier at this point enjoyed his moment of triumph over his sergeant, whose vision had perhaps been somewhat clouded by the Sabory champagne.
What the fusilier had called the seal’s jacket was in fact a thick skin covered with speckled fur, the hairs of which were about as long as those of a young calf. The sergeant at this point had given up all claims to superior authority.
As I was leaving the exhibit, I heard t
he following dialogue between its owner and a lady from Versailles:
« So do these creatures eat a lot of herrings?
— Don’t even mention it, Madame, this seal costs us a good twenty-five francs a day (as much as a representative to the National Assembly). Each herring costs three sous, you know.
— How true, the lady said with a sigh, fish is so expensive these days in Versailles! »
I inquired about the cause of the death of the preceding seal.
« I married off my daughter, said the owner. This was the cause. The seal grew very depressed, and died of a broken heart. And yet we had wrapped him up in blankets and taken care of him just like a human ... but he was too attached to my daughter. So I said to my son: “Go find another one ... but this time make sure it’s not a male, — females are far more independent.” This new cow can be headstrong, — but give seals plenty of fresh herring and they’ll do whatever you want them to! »
How instructive it is to observe the behavior of animals! And how closely all this is related to the various hypotheses put forth by thousands of books during the last century! — While browsing among the stalls of the booksellers at Versailles, I came across a duodecimo volume entitled The Difference between Man and Beast. This book claims that during the winter the Greenlanders used to bury seals under the snow « so that they could subsequently unearth them and eat their frozen flesh raw. »
It occurs to me that seal here shows himself to be superior to man: he prefers his fish fresh.
On page 93 I find this delicate observation: « In love we know each other only because we love each other; in friendship we love each other only because we know each other. »
And then this one: « Two lovers hide their faults from each other and betray each other; two friends, by contrast, admit their faults to each other and forgive each other. »
I put this book back on the shelf: it was written by a moralist who loves animals, — but who does not love love!
Yet we have just seen that seals are fully capable of love and friendship!
The Salt Smugglers Page 3
