The Brotherhood of Book Hunters

by Raphael Jerusalmy

  It was Colin who gave a start first, immediately recognizing the familiar handwriting he had just been thinking about. Speechless, François looked at the first page without daring to touch it. The last time he had seen that sheet, the constabulary had just burst into his garret and grabbed him by the elbows, ready to haul him off to prison. Although they had searched his lodgings from top to bottom, they had not found the knife that Master Ferrebouc, a respectable notary, had accused François of using on him during a nocturnal brawl with the Coquillards. Having been unable to identify his assailants in the darkness, the accursed notary had quite simply denounced the most famous member of the band. Counting on the clemency of his protectors, Louis XI, Charles of Orléans and Marie of Clèves, François had offered little resistance. Risking nevertheless the death penalty, he had thrown a last desperate glance at the scattered and trampled sheets of paper, resigned to the idea that they were his only testament. And now here were his last rhymes in the hands of the Brotherhood, just like the last words of Jesus as recorded by Annas. Were they also hidden here, in this very cellar?

  François gently passed his hand over the pages he had composed, remembering every line, every crossed-out word. Colin demanded an explanation, and Federico obliged him. Whenever they learned of the arrest of a tendentious author, a renowned scholar, or a humanist, the book hunters hastened to intervene, hoping to get their hands on the manuscripts hidden by the suspects. Most left them with a person they trusted, and it was sufficient to track that person down. In Villon’s case, the task had been much easier. Since he was being pursued for a common crime rather than for his writings, the men-at-arms had come to his dwelling, not to seize his ballads, but to search for a weapon. The pages had simply had to be collected and taken away.

  François handled his work with tender care. Suddenly, he noticed that his fingers were white with chalk powder, and he tuned red with anger. His manuscript had also been marked with a cross! It, too, was to be shipped off!

  Médard was visibly embarrassed, Federico frankly amused. Brother Paul hastened to specify that it was up to Gamliel to explain to François the reasons for this choice. François was outraged. The prior painted in glowing colors the possibility of a successful edition printed by Fust, with the royal seal of approval. All to no avail. François demanded that his property be restored to him immediately. Deeply offended, he grunted and gesticulated. He was puzzled, too. This reunion with his own poetry, after all this time, and so far from Paris, could not decently be put down to chance. His manuscript had preceded him here to the Holy Land. It had even arrived well before him, since the action brought by Ferrebouc dated from that damned Christmas of 1462, more than a year ago. These pages had therefore been in the hands of the book hunters before Chartier had visited him in prison. Had Gamliel read them? Whether he had or not, he had certainly known who François Villon was before he set foot in Safed.

  Federico smiled. “My late master Cosimo was delighted to read your rhymes.”

  François’s whole body stiffened. Yes, his poems had not only preceded him to the Holy Land, they had passed through Florence first, even before Fust had opened his shop on Rue Saint-Jacques or Chartier, knowing nothing of the existence of a clandestine Jerusalem, had condescended to send two obscure Coquillards to Palestine. François had to face the truth. Nothing had been negotiated here that could not have been concluded without his intervention, and in the highest circles too. He had never been the official emissary of the kingdom. All these arrangements with Fust and Schoeffer, and with the Bishop of Paris, had come later, after the arrival of his ballads in the Holy Land! And after his arrest! That time in Paris, it had not been his own cunning that had helped him to avoid the gallows, nor Colin’s intercession. It had been the book hunters.

  From the start, it was him they had wanted, François de Montcorbier, known as Villon. François tried to regain his composure and think. Dozens of questions were going through his head. Why had the Brotherhood hidden the presence of his manuscript from him for so long? Why was Federico showing it to him now? What did Jerusalem want of him?

  With an authoritative clap of his hands, Paul announced that it was time for vespers. Federico offered his arm to Aisha. Colin, starving after that afternoon’s long walk, nimbly got in ahead of them. François resigned himself to following behind them. There was one question that kept going around and around in his head, tormenting him more than any other. What was the king’s role in all this?

  Alone now, Médard extinguished the torches one by one, plunging the cellar into darkness. He hopped up the steps that led to the nave. Out of breath, he turned one last time, like a lord inspecting his fiefdom, then closed the door behind him, returning the books to their deep slumber.

  28

  Large brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but it was dark. Two big oak logs blazed in the central hearth, but it was cold. Seen from the entrance, the huge hall seemed almost deserted. At the other end, though, several rows of officers and dignitaries pressed in front of the throne. Their words were lost in the din of the rain hammering the stained-glass window. The king listened, stroking his dogs with a distracted hand. He was dressed simply, in a brown tunic. His rough hair bore a small crenellated crown of matte gold, without stones or engravings. A long knife hung from his belt, clearly visible.

  A lackey pointed to a bench against the side wall, and Fust took his seat, taking care not to make the slightest noise. He looked around at the damp walls, devoid of ornament, the rough flagstones, scrubbed with water, the dust-covered beams. He remembered the polished marble of the palaces of Mayence, the tapestries evoking the luxuries of the court and the pleasures of the heart, the glittering draperies, the walls laden with trophies: the shields of vanquished enemies, the heads of bears and stags and boars, stuffed falcons on silver perches. But Fust did not regret his choice. Paris glowed with quite another fire than did the cities of Germany or Italy, which were devoted to glory and beauty in too flagrant a manner. A concern for good taste reigned on the banks of the Seine just as it did elsewhere, but with a natural, somewhat nonchalant elegance, which, instead of always bowing down before genius, was also able to let itself be won over by subtler, more mischievous talents.

  In his opinion, the book trade would blossom much more here than in Madrid, Turin or Frankfurt. So far, Louis XI had been more astute in his choices than the Italian princes or patrons from the German aristocracy. Cosimo de’ Medici had appointed a philosopher, Marsilio Ficino, director of the Platonic Academy. He had not hesitated to open its doors to the Talmudists, to encourage the researches of Phoenician astronomers and Arab mathematicians, to finance the work of doctors and alchemists. In Mayence, Gutenberg only survived by publishing grandiose bibles and tedious commentaries. But the King of France, against all expectation, had developed friendly feelings for a maker of rhymes whose escapades he had pardoned more than once. And Fust thought he knew why. Villon helped Louis XI in his plans as no brilliant theoretician or faculty heavyweight could have done. In speaking of his life, of women, of his sorrows, of Paris, he invited the subjects of the kingdom to all share the same destiny. His song united the French, be they from Poitou or Picardy, in a single anthem, a single language, which transcended dialects and coteries. Unlike the Medicis, Louis XI was not steeped in Greek and Latin but in the language of his country, as handled so well by Master François. The king was not a great lover of poetry. He quite simply saw Villon as the bard of a nation in the process of being born.

  Nevertheless, Fust was plagued by doubt. The subject he had come to discuss today was of little interest to a monarch who was under attack on all sides. The rebellion of the nobles was taking on an unexpected scale. Charles the Bold, Count of Charolais, now at the head of an impressive coalition of dukes and barons, had just openly declared war on the crown. Bretons, Burgundians, and other provincials jealous of their prerogatives, hoped to dismiss their ambitious monarch and remedy the problems of gove
rnment by placing on the throne an eighteen-year-old boy, the Duke of Berry, who was none other than the king’s brother. To put down this rebellion, Louis XI had called on his surest allies, the Italians. With the Sforzas and the Medicis entering the battle, Fust found it hard to see how the book hunters’ operation could be properly launched. If Louis XI was ousted, the Brotherhood’s secret agreement with France would be rendered null and void. The defeat of Paris would be much more serious than a simple political reversal. It would give the dark forces that had governed Christendom for centuries a highly regrettable reprieve, pushing back the deadline once and for all. A fatal blow must absolutely be dealt to the demons of this abject past that would not resign itself to die. The young king’s possible victory against the lords would not be complete if it did not also ring the funeral bell for the age of chivalry. A military victory was not enough. If the rebellious knights and paladins perished only by the sword, their deaths would be glorious, their bravery legendary. Unless a soldier from quite another legion denied them this final honor. While composing their elegy, he would dig their grave. He would bury them once and for all with a melancholy stroke of his pen. And it was on Villon that Louis XI was counting to deal this fatal blow.

  Waiting to be called, Fust did not move from his bench. The king had not made any announcements on the measures to be taken. He had given no orders, being content to amiably thank the speakers and now and then whisper a few mysterious instructions to his aide-de-camp. The dignitaries and the captains gradually withdrew. It was getting colder and colder, darker and darker, in the great council chamber. Only the Bishop of Paris remained in his place. Once everyone had gone, Guillaume Chartier began an inaudible dialogue with his monarch. His Majesty, who until then had appeared impassive, bent forward to hear better, interrupted the bishop on several occasions, and even smiled with a crafty grin that reminded Fust somewhat of François.

  At last summoned to join in the discussion, the bookseller rose laboriously and approached, leaning on his cane. He prostrated himself awkwardly in what he hoped was a bow, then conveyed greetings to the king from Jerusalem. This tribute did not fail to disconcert Louis XI, who remembered suddenly, with a certain embarrassment, that he was negotiating with Jews. Should he consider this mark of their deference as a courtesy of protocol or be offended by such arrogance? Since when had these godless people without a land of their own had ambassadors? True, he did not trust his own courtiers, nor indeed his own brother. But the Jews? After helping him to undermine the power of the Pope, they would no doubt try to erode his own. Even though they had been recommended by the Medicis, Louis XI suspected Fust’s patrons of having aims that were quite different than those of Florence or Paris. He thought of the only Jews he knew: moneylenders richer than Croesus, a doctor from Toledo who had cured his dislocated shoulder, and a few unfortunates burned in the public square.

  Fust tried to present the Brotherhood’s plan as best he could. After the imposing parade of soldiers and diplomats that had just taken place, it was not easy to come here and boast of the merits of an offensive involving books. To weaken the papacy without setting off an actual conflict, the Brotherhood had carefully chosen the texts to be disseminated. But it was first of all the books themselves that the operation aspired to change, their form, their weight, their appearance. It would liberate them from the yoke of the cloisters and the colleges. Printers, engravers, binders, and peddlers would make them easier to handle, lighter, less expensive. And much less serious. Instead of attacking scholasticism head-on, they would drown it in a stream of works of all kinds, flooding the marketplace with accounts of journeys, treatises on physics, tragedies and farces, manuals on algebra or boilermaking, historical chronicles, tales and legends. And above all, the booksellers would encourage the use of French, Italian, and German. Latin would no longer be a sacred idiom but simply the language of Livy and Virgil.

  Guillaume Chartier seemed to approve. By diminishing the influence of Rome, the clergy of France would strengthen its position within the kingdom. The goods of the Church would at last be in its full possession rather than filling the pockets of the Pope. The expenses incurred in fighting the rebellion of the barons would rapidly place the royal coffers at the mercy of the ecclesiastical finances. And so the Bishop of Paris would become at once spiritual head of the country and principal treasurer to the court.

  The king, who had begun stroking his dogs again, did not deign to express his opinion on the proposed strategy and dismissed Fust. His indifference, whether feigned or not, made the printer ill at ease. The light was gradually going out in the melted wax of the candelabra, plunging the chamber into darkness. As a majordomo escorted Fust to the exit, Louis XI suddenly spoke up. The German turned, tense, all ears.

  “Tell Jerusalem to take good care of Master François.”

  29

  Aisha sat down on the coping of the well, hoping it would provide a little coolness. François remained standing, facing her. As soon as she took his hand, an animal heat, both burning and delicious, spread through the hollow of his palm.

  “Are you as good a poet as they say?”

  Aisha’s innocent question made François smile. He would have liked to lay the girl on the ground and take her right here. He raised his head and examined her for a long time.

  He could not help thinking that the presence of this nomad by his side was far from being fortuitous. Every time he wanted to detain her, the rejection he met with was merely formal—or feigned. She was more than just bait, he knew that. She was his guide through the paths and wadis. Or else an enchantress in the pay of Gamliel.

  A stroke of the cheek immediately swept away François’s anxieties. Seeing him a prey to doubt, was Aisha trying to distract him? There was nothing unlikely about that. But why not accept this truce? He pulled close to her and kissed her forehead. Even though it had often led him astray, he had never resisted the spell of women for very long.

  In the darkness, a solitary spectator applauded. His back against the low wall that surrounded the courtyard of the cloister, Colin doffed his hat low, paying tribute to the admirable way in which the wild girl of the desert had gone about taming the Parisian libertine.

  *

  In the refectory, the guests were talking at the tops of their voices. The prior drew his best beverage from a keg at the end of the table, generously filling a large stoneware jug, humming cheerfully as the divine nectar flowed. Federico was deep in conversation with Médard, who still disapproved of the choice of books to be taken to France and Italy. Above all, he was critical of Master Villon’s Testament, finding it frivolous and insubstantial. He was also offended by the pompous title. There were two Testaments, the old and the new. What need was there of a third?

  Federico, who was a little drunk by now, explained to him condescendingly that it was precisely Villon’s flippancy that would make the greatest impression on people’s minds. And on their hearts. Dante and Pindar wrote in a pure language that touched the clouds, whereas Villon addressed ordinary people face-to-face, in lively speech. His ballads did not celebrate the odyssey of gods or princes, but that of the man in the street, a hearty fellow with whom one would gladly share a drink. Therein lay their strength. Satisfied with the effects of his oratory, interspersed as they were with hiccups, Federico poured himself another generous helping as soon as Brother Paul put down the jug and invited those at the table to say grace.

  30

  Gamliel reached the monastery early in the morning. Politely cutting short the formulas of welcome uttered by the barely sober prior, the rabbi went straight to the cellars. Brother Médard was waiting for him there, legs dangling, perched on a chest from the Indies. Rabbi Gamliel walked past the shelves with a resolute step, as if inspecting the troops. Scrolls and books stood to attention. The best trained agents could fail, make mistakes, but Cato and Averroes would not falter in the face of the enemy, nor would a noose ever be put around Homer’s nec
k. Sea maps did not yet interest the censors. And yet the enormous distances they covered would soon make Rome tiny and insignificant. The recent auto-da-fés revealed the panic that was already gripping the clergy. But the more treatises on astronomy they burned in the public square, the more the onlookers would watch the smoke rising from the pyres. Eventually they would look up and see the stars.

  Gamliel rapidly checked through the lists. The names of the greatest thinkers, the titles of the most important books, succeeded each other from line to line in a glorious inventory interspersed here and there with more lighthearted works. Nobody knew which would be better at defeating the adversary: Greek tragedies or village farces, the truth of science or the fantasy of dreams.

  Gamliel bade a solemn farewell to the rows of volumes. It was in a slightly hoarse voice that he gave permission for Médard to load the wagons.

  Colin and François sat at the long table in the refectory, talking. The only news they had of France had reached them through Brother Paul. It was not always fresh, often taking more than a month to cross the Mediterranean. Nobody knew if Louis XI’s reign had survived the revolt of the barons. It was only when they got to Genoa that the book hunters would discover if they could go to Paris or if they had to give up the idea and follow Federico to Florence. If that was the case, Colin planned to run away as soon as possible and rejoin the Coquil­lards, wherever they were, rather than dog the Florentine’s heels. Shouldn’t they seize the opportunity to rob him and take revenge for the trick he had played on them? Just as François was about to reply, Colin nodded his head in the direction of the door. Gamliel was standing in the doorway. He had surely heard a good part of the conversation.