Still, I continue to be amazed that in a city such as Paris, a center of learning whose public libraries house some two million volumes, it has proved impossible to lay my hands on a French book I happened to read in Frankfurt, — but alas did not purchase.
Books tend to be vanishing into thin air these days, given the liberal lending policies of libraries, — and also given the gradual extinction of the tribe of art and book collectors ever since the Revolution. Whether by hook or by crook, all the bibliographical rarities are ending up in Holland, Germany, or Russia. — It’s too late in the season to set off on a long journey, so I shall simply limit my research to the forty-kilometer radius around Paris.
I have just discovered that it took the Senlis post office seventeen days to deliver you the letter that could have easily made the journey to Paris in three hours. I don’t think that this delay can in any way be imputed to the fact that the locals may have viewed me with suspicion (after all, I grew up in the place), but here is a curious detail:
Several weeks ago, I was sketching out the piece you have agreed to publish and was pursuing preparatory research into the Bucquoys, — whose name has always echoed through my thoughts like some childhood memory. I happened to be passing through Senlis with a friend of mind, a very tall Breton with a black beard. We had caught an early train to Saint-Maixent, then had taken the coach that crosses the woods along the ancient route to Flanders. When we got to Senlis, we were foolhardy enough to stop off for a drink at the busiest café in town.
The place was filled with gendarmes lounging around with that particular ease characteristic of off-duty soldiers. Some were playing dominos, others were playing billiards.
If they were somewhat taken aback by our Parisian beards and behavior, they certainly gave no sign of it that evening.
The following day we were having lunch at the excellent hotel of the Sow on the Run (I swear I am not making this up) when a brigadier came up to us and politely asked for our passports.
Excuse these minor details, — but they may be of interest to readers ...
We answered him in the same fashion that, according to a local song, a certain soldier was said to have answered the constabulary ... (I grew up with this song):They asked the soldier
«Where is your furlough?
He replied, My furlough?
On the ground below
My boots ... »
A nicely turned reply. But the refrain is frightening:Spiritus sanctus,
Quoniam bonus
Which would seem to indicate that things did not turn out well for the soldier in the end ... In our case, the denouement was somewhat happier. Having been asked for our passports, we courteously replied that they were normally not required when visiting the outskirts of Paris. The brigadier saluted and withdrew without a word.
Over lunch we had vaguely discussed the idea of proceeding on to Ermenonville. When the weather took a turn for the worse, we changed our minds and went to reserve our seats on the Chantilly coach that would get us back toward Paris.
As we were about to leave, a police officer flanked by two gendarmes came up to us and said: « Your papers please! »
We repeated the line we had already used.
« In that case, gentlemen, said the policeman, you are under arrest. »
My Breton friend was seething, which was not helping the situation.
I said to him, « Calm down. Let me handle this, I virtually qualify as a member of the diplomatic corps ... Over the course of my travels I have come face to face with kings, pashas, and even padishahs. I know how to deal with authorities.
« Monsieur le commissaire, I said to the police officer (one should always address people by their rightful titles), I have traveled to England on three occasions and was never asked to show my passport except upon leaving France ... I have just come back from Germany, where I traveled through ten sovereign states, — including Hesse: — even the Prussians never asked me for my passport.
— Well, I’m asking you for it here in France.
— You’re aware that criminals always have their papers in order ...
— Not always ... »
He had me there.
« I have lived in these parts for seven years; I even own some property around here ...
— But you have no papers?
— Correct ... Do you think that a potential suspect would just saunter in for a drink in a café filled with off-duty gendarmes?
— It might be just another ruse to escape detection. »
I saw I was dealing with a mastermind here.
« Monsieur le commissaire, I am in fact a writer; I am in the area to do research into the Bucquoy de Longueval family; I’m trying to locate their ancestral seat and the ruins of their former castles. »
The police officer’s face lit up:
« Ah, Monsieur is a writer? Well so am I! I wrote poetry as a young man ... I composed a tragedy ... »
We were clearly not yet out of the woods; — the police officer was threatening to invite us home to dinner in order to read us his tragedy. I had to plead urgent business in Paris before they allowed us to get on the Chantilly coach, the departure of which had been delayed by our arrest.
I have no need to assure you that I am continuing to supply you with absolutely factual details about my experiences as a painstaking researcher.
P.S. Would you be afraid to insert the continuation of the tale of the great aunt of the abbé de Bucquoy in tomorrow’s installment? I have been informed that given the present state of affairs this might be a dangerous course of action. — And yet, it’s straight history.
Those who do not care for hunting will never fully understand the beauty of autumn landscapes. — At this very moment, despite the morning mist, we are looking at vistas worthy of the Old Dutch Masters. In castles and in museums one still recaptures the spirit of the painters of the North, — a pink or bluish tint to the skies, a few leaves here and there on the trees, fields in the distance, the odd rural scene in the foreground.
Watteau’s Voyage à Cythère was conceived among the thin variegated mists of this region. His Cythera was modeled on one of the islets created by the flooding of the Oise and Aisne, — these rivers which are so calm and so peaceful in the summer.
The lyrical tone of these observations should not astonish you; — tired of all the senseless arguments and sterile hubbub of Paris, I am resting up amid these green and fertile fields; — I regather strength here in my motherland.
Regardless of our philosophical convictions, we are all somehow rooted in our ancestral ground. You cannot carry along the ashes of your fathers on the soles of your shoes, — and even the poorest of mortals retains some sort of blessed memory of those who once loved him. All the world’s religions or philosophies enjoin mankind to worship its memories.
I am writing you on All Souls’ Day; — please excuse the melancholy overtones. I arrived in Senlis yesterday, having crossed through some of the loveliest and saddest country one can see at this time of the year. The reds of the oaks and poplars against the dark greens of the grass, the white trunks of the birches rising out of the briar and bramble, the majestic sweep of this road that reaches all the way to Flanders and that now and then climbs to a vantage point from which you can glimpse a wide vista of misty forests, — all this plunged me into a reverie. When I got to Senlis, the town was in the midst of festivities. The bells, — the very bells which Rousseau used to love hearing in the distance, — were ringing out on all sides. Groups of young girls were promenading down the streets or were gathered in front of doorways giggling and chattering away. Perhaps I am the victim of an illusion, but I have yet to come across an ugly girl in Senlis ... or maybe it’s just that the ugly ones never show their faces!
No; — the blood tends to be very good here, no doubt on account of the purity of the air, the quality of the water, and the quantity of food. Senlis has been protected from the great rush of the Northern Line, whose rails are sweepin
g the local populations toward Germany. — I have never been able to figure out why the Northern Line avoids this region, — and instead makes a huge loop around the area that includes Montmorency, Luzarches, Gonesse, and a number of other towns that might have profited by the direct rail link. The reason may be that the people with influence over the railroad wanted it to pass through their own properties. — A quick glance at any map will bear out the accuracy of this observation.
It is only fitting to pay a visit to the cathedral of Senlis on a feast day such as this. It has recently been restored and its fine escutcheon with the town’s coat of arms on a field of fleur-de-lis has been remounted on the lateral portal. The bishop himself was officiating, — and the nave was crowded with the local nobles and gentry who still live in the region.
Upon leaving the cathedral, I admired the last rays of the setting sun upon the crumbling, ivy-covered towers of the Roman fortifications. — As I passed by the priory, I noticed a group of young girls sitting on its doorsteps.
They were all singing; the oldest one among them was acting as the conductor, standing in front of them, clapping her hands to indicate the beat.
« Come on, young ladies, let’s start at the top; the littlest girls are not following! ... I want to hear that little girl over there on the left, the first one over on the second step: — come on, let’s hear you sing it alone. »
In a soft yet resonant voice the little girl sang:The ducks in the stream ... etc.
Yet another tune I had grown up with! Childhood memories surge back more vividly midway through life, — like some palimpsest whose original text suddenly reappears after the manuscript has been chemically treated.
The little girls then launched into another song, — one more memory:Three girls in the grass ...
How my heart beats!
How my heart beats!
For my pretty little lass!
« Oh you little devils, said a solid old peasant who was standing next to me all ears, you’re just too adorable for words! ... What about dancing for us now? »
The little girls got up from the steps and proceeded to perform an unusual dance that reminded me of the dances I had seen girls doing in the Greek isles.
They all lined up, — as we say in the region, — à la queue leleu, that is, Indian file. Then a boy takes the hands of the girl who is first in line and leads her backwards, while the other girls all hold on to each other’s arms from behind. This creates a snake which first uncoils in a spiral and then turns into a circle, before recoiling itself ever more tightly around the spectator who stands there in the middle listening to the singing and who, as the round dance draws ever closer to him, then kisses the various children who have offered this kindly gift to the passing stranger.
I was no stranger, but I was moved to tears upon hearing these tiny voices sing with the same intonations, the same trills, the same accentuations that I remembered from my earliest youth, — and that had been passed down unchanged from mother to daughter over the ages ...
The music of this region has not been spoiled by the influx of the Parisian opera or by the popular songs sung in parlors or by the melodies cranked out by barrel organs. In Senlis, they are still playing the music introduced here by the Medecis in the sixteenth century. The age of Louis XIV has also left its traces. Some of the country girls can still remember some of the old complaints, — which are delightfully mawkish. One occasionally comes across remnants of what seem to be sixteenth-century operas, — or seventeenth-century oratorios.
Long ago, I went to a performance given by a boarding school for young ladies at Senlis.
They were performing a mystery play, — as in days of yore. — The play showed the life of Christ in all its details; the scene that sticks in my mind involved Christ’s descent into the underworld.
An extremely beautiful fair-haired girl appeared wearing a white gown, a crown of pearls, a halo, a golden sword; she was standing on a hemisphere that represented an extinguished star.
She was singing:Angels! Make haste to descend
To the depths of purgatory! ...
And she spoke of the glory of the Messiah who was about to grace these dark nether regions. — She added:You shall see him clear as day
Wearing his crown ...
Seated on his throne!
These memories date back to the days of the monarchy. The fair-haired young lady, a descendent of one of the greatest families of the region, was called Delphine. — I shall never forget her name.
CONTINTUATION OF THE HISTORY OF THE GREAT AUNT OF THE ABBÉ DE BUCQUOY
... The count de Longueval said to his servants: « Frisk this traitor; he has letters from my daughter on him. » Then turning to him, he said: « Tell me, you scoundrel, where were you coming from when you left the great hall so early in the morning? »
« I was coming from M. de la Porte’s room, and I have no idea what letters you are talking about. »
Luckily for him, La Corbinière had previously burned all the letters he had received, so nothing was found on him. Still holding his pistol in his hand, the count de Longueval nonetheless said to his son: « Cut off his moustache and his hair! »
The count imagined that after this procedure, La Corbinière would no longer be attractive to his daughter.
This is how she describes the episode:
« Seeing himself in this sorry condition and thinking that I would no longer love him, the poor boy wanted to die. But when I saw the state he was in on account of his love for me, my feelings for him knew no bounds; indeed, I swore that if my father ever treated him this poorly again, I should surely kill myself in front of his eyes. Being an intelligent man, he proceeded with caution and, without making any more scenes, dispatched him to the Beauvoisis on a good horse, his mission being to inform the local gendarmes to prepare for transfer to the garrison at Orbaix. »
COMMENTARY
Gendarmes again! ... Or rather, gendarmes already! ... — Well, there are no more gendarmes at Senlis. I had found them polite, but a little over-susceptible ... Today they have been replaced by cuirassiers from the cavalry regiment camped nearby. — They stand out at the town ball, take over all the public spaces, and make it impossible for a simple pedestrian to catch the eyes of the local Senlis beauties.
But this time around I had no disagreeable run-ins with the law: — I had a passport chock full of German stamps and, what’s more, I hired my own private cab to take me to Ermenonville. Fate was clearly smiling upon me, — and I remembered this phrase uttered by a hotel keeper in one of Balzac’s works:
« They shall be treated like princes, — princes with money. »
The young lady adds:
« Neither the cruel treatment to which he had been subjected by my father nor the latter’s admonitions that he remain within the bounds prescribed by his duties could keep him from spending that night with me. This is the ruse he resorted to: having been ordered to go to the Beauvoisis by my father, he accordingly rode off on his horse, but instead of proceeding on to his destination, he stopped in the forest of Guny until night had fallen, and then went to have something to eat at Tancar’s in Coucy-la-Ville; after supper, he took his two pistols and crept back into Verneuil by the small garden, where I was waiting for him with complete assurance, knowing as I did that everybody thought he was by now far away. I took him up to my room, and he said to me: “This is too fine an occasion to waste without kissing each other. Let us therefore get undressed ... There is nothing to fear ...” »
La Corbinière fell ill, which caused the count to be less severe in his regard. — But to get him out of his daughter’s sight, he said to him: « You shall have to go to the garrison at Orbaix, for the rest of gendarmes are already there. »
Which he did with a heavy heart.
At Orbaix, La Corbinière entrusted a letter for Angélique de Longueval to a certain Toquette who was the valet of the count’s falconer and was on his way to Verneuil. Fearing that the letter might be interce
pted, he instructed the valet to place it under a stone before entering the castle, this way, if they searched him, they would find nothing.
Once he had made it into the castle, it would be very simple to go recover the letter from under the stone and remit it to the young lady. The young boy carried out his assignment very well; he approached Angélique de Longueval and said to her: « I have something for you. »
She was extremely happy with this letter. La Corbinière informed her that he had quit a most advantageous position in Germany to be by her side, and that he could not go on living if she did not consent to see him.
Having accompanied her brother to the castle of Neuville, Angélique asked one of her mother’s servants whose name was Court-Toujours: « Would you be so kind as to deliver this letter secretly to La Corbinière, who has just returned from Germany? »
COMMENTARY. — FRENCH LEGEND CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF ANGÉLIQUE LONGUEVAL
Before going into detail about Angélique de Longueval’s great decision, I wonder whether I might be allowed to insert a few words here. I promise that I shall hereafter interrupt the narrative only on rare occasions. It being illegal to engage in the historical novel, we shall just have to serve up the sauce on some other platter; — that is, local color, period atmosphere, analysis of characters, — complementing the material truth of the facts being related.
I hope that in what follows you will excuse me for having simply copied out a number of passages from the manuscript which I discovered in the Archives and which I have supplemented with other materials that I have researched. Habituated as I have been for the past fifteen years to the breakneck speed of newspaper writing, I actually tend to spend more time carefully choosing and copying than I do imagining things.
The Salt Smugglers Page 7
