If you printed the passage where I described the arrest of the archaeologist, rest assured that this episode is entirely true and that I am ready to supply you with proof of the matter, — and what’s more, could cite another example of this sort of thing that occurred in another part of the Oise. — If I am a little vague about the precise geographical locations, it’s because I am afraid of compromising the persons in question.
In the material I just sent off to you there is yet another word which cost me an hour of sleep. I may well have committed an error in French, — or, as it were, against French, — when speaking of officials who « overstep their authority and hence provoke extreme counter-reactions. »
The mistake would seem to be an elementary one at first glance; — but there are several kinds of reactions: some reactions involve roundabout responses, — others simply involve grinding to a halt. The point I wanted to make was that one excess can lead to another. How otherwise explain acts of arson or the wanton destruction of property, — admittedly rare events these days? Every time a crowd starts getting agitated, there is always some foreign or hostile element that takes advantage of the situation in order push things beyond the limits usually established (and enforced) by common sense.
An anecdote that was told to me by a well-known bibliophile will bear this out. As it so happens, the hero of the story is another bibliophile.
On the day the February Revolution broke out, several carriages were burned, — it was believed that they had been purchased for the royal court with monies provided by the civil list. — This act was no doubt very wrong; looking back on it today, people tend to blame it on the traitors who had infiltrated the crowd that had gathered in the wake of the uprising ...
The bibliophile in question went over to Palais-National that very evening. He could not have cared less about the carriages that were being set on fire; all he cared about was a work in four folio volumes entitled Perceforest.
It was one of those romaunts of the Arthurian cycle, — or perhaps it was the Charlemagne cycle, — containing the epic accounts of our ancient chivalric wars.
Elbowing his way through the assembled crowd, he managed to enter the palace courtyard. — He was a lanky fellow with a wizened face now and then creased by a benevolent smile; respectably dressed in a black suit, he had been let through by the crowd out of sheer curiosity.
« My friends, he asked, has the Perceforest been burned?
— No, we’re just burning carriages.
— Very well. Carry on then. And the library?
— Hasn’t been touched ... What do you want, anyway ?
— I want them to spare the four-volume edition of Perceforest, a hero of yesteryear ... an irreplaceable edition, with two pages that have been transposed and a large ink stain in the third volume. »
He was told:
« Check with the first floor. »
He went to the first floor, where he was informed:
« We absolutely deplore what happened when the situation flared up ... Several paintings were damaged in the initial confusion ...
— Yes, I know, a Horace Vernet ... All this is nothing: — the Perceforest?...
They looked at him as if he were stark mad. He beat a quick retreat and finally managed to locate the concierge of the Palais-National, who was hiding out in her quarters.
« Madame, if they have not yet taken over the library, could you please go and see whether the Perceforest is still there, — it’s a sixteenth-century edition, bound in vellum by Gaume. The rest of the library is worthless ... poorly selected books for people who don’t read ... But the Perceforest has been estimated to be worth forty thousand francs. »
The concierge’s eyes opened wide.
« I would pay twenty thousand for it right here and now ... despite the depreciation of property values inevitably associated with revolutions.
— Twenty thousand francs!
— I have them at home! But if I bought the edition it would merely be in order to donate it to the nation. It’s a national treasure. »
Dazzled and astonished, the concierge courageously agreed to sneak over into the library by a small back stairway. She had been swept up by the scholar’s enthusiasm.
Presently she returned, having seen the book on the exact shelf indicated by the bibliophile.
« Sir, the book is there. But there are only three volumes ... You must have made some mistake.
— Three volumes! ... What a loss! ... I’m immediately going to inform the provisional government, — they usually set one up in these cases, don’t they? ... Perceforest incomplete! Revolutions are terrible things! »
The bibliophile rushed over to the Hôtel-de-Ville. — People had other things to deal with than bibliography. He nonetheless managed to buttonhole M. Arago, — who understood the importance of his mission and immediately issued orders that the matter be looked into.
The Perceforest was incomplete only because one of its volumes was on loan.
We are delighted that this work was fortunate enough to remain in France.
As for the History of the abbé de Bucquoy, which is due to go on sale on the 20th, it may very well not be as fortunate!
So I now beg you, please realize that mistakes do get made, — especially when a quick tour through a region such as this one is constantly interrupted by fog or rain ...
I regret having to leave Senlis; — but my friend is insisting that I continue on my way, if only to remain faithful to an idea that I was reckless enough to have shared with him ... Friends are like children, — they are royal pains, — another local expression.
I greatly enjoyed this town where virtually every street, stable, or cellar offers a glimpse of Roman antiquity, the Middle Ages, or the Renaissance. I mentioned « the Roman towers in ivy clad »! — The eternal greenery that covers them is a living indictment of the inconstancy of our northern climes. — In the Orient, the woods are always green; — each tree naturally has a season in which it is bound to lose its leaves, but this season varies with the species. In Cairo I saw sycamores losing their leaves in the summer. But on the other hand, these same trees were green in January.
The wooded paths surrounding Senlis follow the course of the ancient Roman fortifications which were restored during the long period when this town was the capital of the Carlovingian kings but this late in the season all they offer to the eye are the rusty leaves of elm and lime trees. But there are still splendid views to be had of the surrounding landscape at sunset. — The forests of Chantilly, Compiègne, and Ermenonville, as well as the woods of Châalis and Pont-Armé stand out as russet masses against the bright green of the intervening fields. In the distance, the castles still display their towers, — solidly built out of Senlis stone and, more often than not, now reduced to dovecotes.
The spindly spires, which bristle with jutting stone-work that is (I know not why) called bonework in the region, still echo with the sound of the bells that plunged Rousseau’s soul into such a sweet state of melancholy ...
Let us pursue the pilgrimage that we promised ourselves to undertake: it shall lead us not to his mortal remains, — which are enshrined in the Pantheon, — but rather to the original site of his tomb on the Isle of Poplars at Ermenonville.
The cathedral of Senlis, the church of Saint-Pierre, — which has now been turned into a cavalry barracks, — the castle of Henri IV snuggled within the town’s ancient fortifications, the Byzantine cloisters of Charles the Fat and his successors, — none of this can now keep us back ... It is time to strike out through the woods, despite the lingering morning mist.
We left Senlis on foot and made our way into the woods, delighting in every deep breath of the autumn mist. Gazing at the great trees whose tops were bare except for the occasional bouquet of yellowed leaves, my friend Sylvain said to me:
« Do you remember the days when we used to play in these woods, when your relatives used to let you come over to our place to see the rest of your family? ... W
hen we used to pull the shrimp out from under the rocks under the bridges of the Nonette and the Oise?... You were very careful to take off your socks and shoes, and we all called you: the little Parisian?
— I remember, I told him, that one day you abandoned me when I was in danger. It was at one of the eddies of the Oise, up toward Neufmoulin, — I absolutely wanted to get to the other side of the river in order to take the shortcut back to my wetnurse’s place. — You said to me: “There’s a crossing-place here.” The tall weeds and the green foam that gathers at the bends of our rivers had convinced me that the bottom wasn’t very deep at that ford. I was the first at the river. Then I plunged into seven feet of water. Then you ran off, afraid that you would be blamed for having allowed the little Parisian to get drownded. You had decided to claim, should anybody ask you what had happened, that he wanted to go his own fool way. — And this is what we call a friend. »
Sylvain blushed and said nothing.
« But your sister, thank God, had followed us, — the poor little thing, — and as I was flailing around in the water with my hands, having cut myself on the sharp leaves of the irises when I plunged in, she lay down on the shore on her belly and got hold of my hair and pulled with all her might.
— Poor Sylvie! said my friend, choking up.
— I hope it’s clear, I continued, that I owe you absolutely nothing ...
— Oh yes you do: I taught you how to climb trees. You see those magpie nests up there in the poplar and chestnut trees? — Well, I was the one who taught you how to get at them, — not to mention the wood-pecker nests, which are even higher in the trees come spring. — Since you were a Parisian, you had to attach climbing irons onto your shoes to make it up the trees, — whereas I did it bare-footed!
— Sylvain, I said, let’s not descend into recriminations. We’re about to go visit the tomb of Rousseau’s missing ashes. So let’s take it easy. — The memories he has left behind in this region far outweigh his mortal remains. »
We followed a path that led to the castle of Montl’Évêque and its woods. Here and there ponds glinted through the red foliage, accented by the dark greens of the pines. Sylvain sang me a traditional song of the region:Courage, my friend, courage!
We’ve almost reached the village!
At the very first house we meet,
We’ll stop for a bite to eat!
The local wine they served in the village proved to be quite refreshing to travelers. Seeing our beards, the innkeeper said to us, « So you’re painters? ... You’ve come to see Châalis? »
Châalis, — the very name brought back memories of distant times ... when I was taken to the abbey once a year to listen to mass and to see the fair they annually used hold near there.
« Châalis, I said ... you mean the place still exists?
— Child, didn’t you know? They’ve sold off everything, — the castle, the abbey, the ruins, everything! Except that the people who bought them have no intention of destroying them ... They’re from Paris: they bought the entire property, — in order to restore it. The lady said that she was ready to spend four hundred thousand francs on it.
— Gee, said Sylvain, if people have that kind of money to spend they should keep it in the bank.
— This will be a great boon to the entire region, said the innkeeper.
— When the revolution broke out, said Sylvain, people in Senlis were quite frightened. Many sold their carriages and their horses for virtually nothing. There was one individual who was so afraid that his carriage might politically compromise him that he actually gave it away! A brace of horses worth five thousand francs was sold for six hundred.
— I would like to have gotten my hands on those!
— The horses?
— No ...
— Except, Sylvain went on to add, it should be pointed out in honor of our town that there were others who decided, given the circumstances, that they would spread their money around. People whose age or whose styles of life would have normally kept them quietly out of public view now decided to organize festivals, create jobs for workers, order carriages and even buy horses, — but not the horses that the scaredy-cats were selling off ... and which eventually ended up in the hands of the horse-traders.
— Sylvain, I said, you fill me with admiration. What a nice turn you’ve given to this little tale. »
La Chapelle-en-Serval, this 20th of November.
Just as it is only fitting, even if the symphony be merely a pastoral one, that the major theme (whether sprightly, tender, or overpowering) be now and then reintroduced in order that it may at last thunder forth in the gradual storm of instruments that gathers for the finale, — so I think it would be useful to reintroduce the abbé de Bucquoy here without however interrupting my journey in search of the castle of his ancestors, an excursion I am undertaking so as to be able to provide a precise description of the setting of his adventures, — which would otherwise be of little interest.
But if the final chords refuse to fall, — it is (as you shall see) certainly not deliberate on my part ...
But first, let me repair an injustice I may have committed toward M. R*** of the Bibliothèque Nationale. Far from having lightly dismissed my bibliographical quest as a wild-goose chase, he went through the roughly eight hundred thousand books in their holdings. I was only informed of this later, — but being unable to locate the missing item, he sent me a semi-official notification of the sale that was going to be held at Techener’s, — in short, he conducted himself like a true scholar.
Aware that auctions of great libraries usually drag on over a number of days, I had tried to find out on what day precisely the book would be put up for sale; if it was going to be on the 20th, I wanted to be sure to be there for the evening session.
But it’s been put off until the 30th!
The book has in fact been classified under the category of History and has been assigned number 3584. Incident of the rarest sort, etc., — but you’re already familiar with the title.
This listing is accompanied by the following note:
« Rare. — Such is the title of this bizarre book whose frontispiece consists of an engraving depicting The Living Hell, that is, the Bastille. The remainder of the volume is made up of extremely singular items. »
« Catalogue of the Library of Monsieur M***, etc. »
I can provide you with a foretaste of this fascinating story, — the truth of which several people would seem to be doubting, — by reproducing some of the notes I took while leafing through Michaud’s Dictionary of National Biography.
Immediately following the biographical article on Charles Bonaventure, count de Bucquoy (generalissimo and member of the Order of the Golden Fleece, famous for his participation in the wars of France, Bohemia, and Hungary, and whose grandson, Charles, was later made a prince of the Empire), there is an entry devoted to the abbé de Bucquoy, who is identified as belonging to the same family as the previous gentleman. His political life began with five years of military service. Having miraculously escaped a major disaster, he made a vow to withdraw from the world and shut himself up in a Trappist monastery. Unconvinced of his vocation, the abbé of Rancé, — the subject of Chateaubriand’s last book, — expelled him from the monastery. He once again put on his military uniform, which he soon traded for beggar’s rags.
Following the example of the fakirs and dervishes, he wandered the world, hoping to provide an example of humility and austerity. He called himself The Dead Man, — and it was under this name that he even established a free school at Rouen.
I’ll stop here for fear of giving the whole story away. But just to prove it has its serious side, let me simply mention that he later proposed to the united states of Holland (who were at war with Louis XIV) « a project to transform France into a republic and to rid the land of arbitrary power. » He died in Hanover at the age of ninety, leaving his books and remaining worldly possessions to the Catholic church, to which he had always remained faithful. — A
s for his sixteen years of travels through India, only the Dutch book in the Bibliothèque Nationale makes any mention of them. — We shall return to all this later.
Well, all this is quite serious indeed; here’s a bit of news no less serious:
I have just received notice, along with other information that I’d been awaiting, that I have been expelled from the apartment that I had long been renting in Paris. — Excuse me for going on and on about myself again. But just as the life of the abbé de Bucquoy can illuminate an entire epoch, — following the well-known analytical procedure of moving from the simple toward the complex, — so it seems to me that because the existence of a writer is by definition more public than that of other men (whose lives inevitably conceal shadowy nooks and crannies), he therefore has to use his own existence to provide examples of those ordinary occurrences typical of any society.
What follows is a rather feudal document which I leave it up to you to quote from; you may just want to insert those passages which usefully demonstrate how insulting the obsolete language of our bureaucrats can be when addressed to private citizens. — What’s at issue here are general customs and usages, not any individual in particular; the individual here is but a cog in the administrative wheel.
The petitioner of record (the prefect of the Seine), proceeding with the expropriation, which is to be undertaken in the public interest, of the edifices required for the expansion of the approaches to the Louvre and for the extension of the rue de Rivoli, edifices which include the one inhabited by the below-mentioned individual, hereby informs him by the present letter that he is to vacate all the living quarters that he occupies in the said building, and that he shall do so by the first of January eighteen hundred and fifty-one, on the understanding that at this precise date he shall no longer reside in these premises, having removed himself and all of his belongings and having paid all the fees and arrears required of a tenant at the termination of his lease;
The Salt Smugglers Page 11
