Produced by Brett Fishburne
THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD
By Anatole France
PART I--THE LOG
December 24, 1849.
I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear withwhich the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision. Abright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shapedlike fern-leaves, were sprouting over the windowpanes and concealed fromme the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Valois.
I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and tookup so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me.Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion,with his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose and fell withhis regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of hisagate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closedagain almost at once, thinking to himself, "It is nothing; it is only myfriend."
"Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legs--"Hamilcar, somnolentPrince of the City of Books--thou guardian nocturnal! Like that DivineCat who combated the impious in Heliopolis--in the night of the greatcombat--thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the oldsavant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigablezeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, thatshelters thy military virtues; for verily in thy person are united theformidable aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous grace of awoman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, whileawaiting the moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dancebefore the Acta Sanctorum of the learned Bolandists!"
The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied itwith a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as myvoice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and bywrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my partso to declaim.
"This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, "talks to no purpose atall while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of goodsense, full of significance--containing either the announcement of ameal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But this oldman puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing."
So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I openeda book, which I began to read with interest; for it was a catalogue ofmanuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinating, moredelightful than that of a catalogue. The one which I was reading--editedin 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas Raleigh--sins, itis true, by excess of brevity, and does not offer that character ofexactitude which the archivists of my own generation were the first tointroduce into works upon diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a gooddeal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps why I findmyself aware, while reading it, of a state of mind which in nature moreimaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myselfto drift away this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when myhousekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccozdesired to speak with me.
In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her. He was alittle man--a poor little man of puny appearance, wearing a thin jacket.He approached me with a number of little bows and smiles. But he wasvery pale, and, although still young and alert, he looked ill. I thoughtas I looked at him, of a wounded squirrel. He carried under his arm agreen toilette, which he put upon a chair; then unfastening the fourcorners of the toilette, he uncovered a heap of little yellow books.
"Monsieur," he then said to me, "I have not the honour to be known toyou. I am a book-agent, Monsieur. I represent the leading houses ofthe capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honour me with yourconfidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few novelties."
Kind gods! just gods! such novelties as the homunculus Coccoz showed me!The first volume that he put in my hand was "L'Histoire de la Tourde Nesle," with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the CaptainBuridan.
"It is a historical book," he said to me, with a smile--"a book of realhistory."
"In that case," I replied, "it must be very tiresome; for all thehistorical books which contain no lies are extremely tedious. I writesome authentic ones myself; and if you were unlucky enough to carry acopy of any of them from door to door you would run the risk of keepingit all your life in that green baize of yours, without ever finding evena cook foolish enough to buy it from you."
"Certainly Monsieur," the little man answered, out of pure good-nature.
And, all smiling again, he offered me the "Amours d'Heloise etd'Abeilard"; but I made him understand that, at my age, I had no use forlove-stories.
Still smiling, he proposed me the "Regle des Jeux de laSociete"--piquet, bezique, ecarte, whist, dice, draughts, and chess.
"Alas!" I said to him, "if you want to make me remember the rules ofbezique, give me back my old friend Bignan, with whom I used to playcards every evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted himto the cemetery; or else bring down to the frivolous level of humanamusements the grave intelligence of Hamilcar, whom you see on thatcushion, for he is the sole companion of my evenings."
The little man's smile became vague and uneasy.
"Here," he said, "is a new collection of society amusements--jokes andpuns--with a receipt for changing a red rose to a white rose."
I told him that I had fallen out with the roses for a long time, andthat, as to jokes, I was satisfied with those which I unconsciouslypermitted myself to make in the course of my scientific labours.
The homunculus offered me his last book, with his last smile. He said tome:
"Here is the Clef des Songes--the 'Key of Dreams'--with the explanationof any dreams that anybody can have; dreams of gold, dreams of robbers,dreams of death, dreams of falling from the top of a tower.... It isexhaustive."
I had taken hold of the tongs, and, brandishing them energetically, Ireplied to my commercial visitor:
"Yes, my friend; but those dreams and a thousand others, joyous ortragic, are all summed up in one--the Dream of Life; is your littleyellow book able to give me the key to that?"
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the homunculus; "the book is complete, and itis not dear--one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur."
I called my housekeeper--for there is no bell in my room--and said toher:
"Therese, Monsieur Coccoz--whom I am going to ask you to show out--has abook here which might interest you: the 'Key of Dreams.' I shall be veryglad to buy it for you."
My housekeeper responded:
"Monsieur, when one has not even time to dream awake, one has still lesstime to dream asleep. Thank God, my days are just enough for my work andmy work for my days, and I am able to say every night, 'Lord, bless Thouthe rest which I am going to take.' I never dream, either on my feet orin bed; and I never mistake my eider-down coverlet for a devil, as mycousin did; and, if you will allow me to give my opinion about it,I think you have books enough here now. Monsieur has thousands andthousands of books, which simply turn his head; and as for me, I havejust tow, which are quite enough for all my wants and purposes--myCatholic prayer-book and my Cuisiniere Bourgeoise."
And with those words my housekeeper helped the little man to fasten uphis stock again within the green toilette.
The homunculus Coccoz had ceased to smile. His relaxed features tooksuch an expression of suffering that I felt sorry to have made fun ofso unhappy a man. I called him back, and told him that I had caught aglimpse of a copy of the "Histoire d'Estelle et de Nemorin," whichhe had among his books; that I was very fond of shepherds andshepherdesses, and that I would be quite willing to purchase, at areasonable price, the story of these two perfect lovers.
"I
will sell you that book for one franc twenty-five centimes,Monsieur," replied Coccoz, whose face at once beamed with joy. "It ishistorical; and you will be pleased with it. I know now just what suitsyou. I see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I will bring youthe Crimes des Papes. It is a good book. I will bring you the editiond'amateur, with coloured plates."
I begged him not to do anything of the sort, and sent him away happy.When the green toilette and the agent had disappeared in the shadow ofthe corridor I asked my housekeeper whence this little man had droppedupon us.
"Dropped is the word," she answered; "he dropped on us from the roof,Monsieur, where he lives with his wife."
"You say he has a wife, Therese? That is marvelous! Women are verystrange creatures! This one must be a very unfortunate little woman."
"I don't really know what she is," answered Therese; "but every morningI see her trailing a silk dress covered with grease-spots over thestairs. She makes soft eyes at people. And, in the name of common sense!does it become a woman that has been received here out of charity tomake eyes and to wear dresses like that? For they allowed the coupleto occupy the attic during the time the roof was being repaired, inconsideration of the fact that the husband is sick and the wife in aninteresting condition. The concierge even says that the pain came onher this morning, and that she is now confined. They must have been verybadly off for a child!"
"Therese," I replied, "they had no need of a child, doubtless. ButNature had decided that they should bring one into the world; Naturemade them fall into her snare. One must have exceptional prudence todefeat Nature's schemes. Let us be sorry for them and not blame them!As for silk dresses, there is no young woman who does not like them.The daughters of Eve adore adornment. You yourself, Therese--who are soserious and sensible--what a fuss you make when you have no white apronto wait at table in! But, tell me, have they got everything necessary intheir attic?"
"How could they have it, Monsieur?" my housekeeper made answer. "Thehusband, whom you have just seen, used to be a jewellery-peddler--atleast, so the concierge tells me--and nobody knows why he stoppedselling watches, you have just seen that his is now selling almanacs.That is no way to make an honest living, and I never will believe thatGod's blessing can come to an almanac-peddler. Between ourselves,the wife looks to me for all the world like a good-for-nothing--aMarie-couche toi-la. I think she would be just as capable of bringing upa child as I should be of playing the guitar. Nobody seems to know wherethey came from; but I am sure they must have come by Misery's coach fromthe country of Sans-souci."
"Wherever they have come from, Therese, they are unfortunate; and theirattic is cold."
"Pardi!--the roof is broken in several places and the rain comes throughin streams. They have neither furniture nor clothing. I don't thinkcabinet-makers and weavers work much for Christians of that sect!"
"That is very sad, Therese; a Christian woman much less well providedfor than this pagan, Hamilcar here!--what does she have to say?"
"Monsieur, I never speak to those people; I don't know what she says orwhat she sings. But she sings all day long; I hear her from the stairwaywhenever I am going out or coming in."
"Well! the heir of the Coccoz family will be able to say, like the Eggin the village riddle: Ma mere me fit en chantant. ["My mother sang whenshe brought me into the world."] The like happened in the case of HenryIV. When Jeanne d'Albret felt herself about to be confined she began tosing an old Bearnaise canticle:
"Notre-Dame du bout du pont, Venez a mon aide en cette heure! Priez le Dieu du ciel Qu'il me delivre vite, Qu'il me donne un garcon!
"It is certainly unreasonable to bring little unfortunates into theworld. But the thing is done every day, my dear Therese and all thephilosophers on earth will never be able to reform the silly custom.Madame Coccoz has followed it, and she sings. This is creditable atall events! But, tell me, Therese, have you not put the soup to boilto-day?"
"Yes, Monsieur; and it is time for me to go and skim it."
"Good! but don't forget, Therese, to take a good bowl of soup out of thepot and carry it to Madame Coccoz, our attic neighbor."
My housekeeper was on the point of leaving the room when I added, justin time:
"Therese, before you do anything else, please call your friend theporter, and tell him to take a good bundle of wood out of our stock andcarry it up to the attic of those Coccoz folks. See, above all, thathe puts a first-class log in the lot--a real Christmas log. As for thehomunculus, if he comes back again, do not allow either himself or anyof his yellow books to come in here."
Having taken all these little precautions with the refined egotism of anold bachelor, I returned to my catalogue again.
With what surprise, with what emotion, with what anxiety did I thereindiscover the following mention, which I cannot even now copy withoutfeeling my hand tremble:
"LA LEGENDE DOREE DE JACQUES DE GENES (Jacques de Voragine);--traductionfrancaise, petit in-4.
"This MS. of the fourteenth century contains, besides the tolerablycomplete translation of the celebrated work of Jacques de Voragine,1. The Legends of Saints Ferreol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent,and Droctoveus; 2. A poem 'On the Miraculous Burial of MonsieurSaint-Germain of Auxerre.' This translation, as well as the legends andthe poem, are due to the Clerk Alexander.
"This MS. is written upon vellum. It contains a great number ofilluminated letters, and two finely executed miniatures, in a ratherimperfect state of preservation:--one represents the Purification of theVirgin, and the other the Coronation of Proserpine."
What a discovery! Perspiration moistened my forehead, and a veil seemedto come before my eyes. I trembled; I flushed; and, without being ableto speak, I felt a sudden impulse to cry out at the top of my voice.
What a treasure! For more than forty years I had been making a specialstudy of the history of Christian Gaul, and particularly of thatglorious Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, whence issued forth thoseKing-Monks who founded our national dynasty. Now, despite the culpableinsufficiency of the description given, it was evident to me thatthe MS. of the Clerk Alexander must have come from the great Abbey.Everything proved this fact. All the legends added by the translatorrelated to the pious foundation of the Abbey by King Childebert. Thenthe legend of Saint-Droctoveus was particularly significant; being thelegend of the first abbot of my dear Abbey. The poem in French verseon the burial of Saint-Germain led me actually into the nave of thatvenerable basilica which was the umbilicus of Christian Gaul.
The "Golden Legend" is in itself a vast and gracious work. Jacques deVoragine, Definitor of the Order of Saint-Dominic, and Archbishopof Genoa, collected in the thirteenth century the various legends ofCatholic saints, and formed so rich a compilation that from all themonasteries and castles of the time there arouse the cry: "This is the'Golden Legend.'" The "Legende Doree" was especially opulent in Romanhagiography. Edited by an Italian monk, it reveals its best merits inthe treatment of matters relating to the terrestrial domains of SaintPeter. Voragine can only perceive the greater saints of the Occidentas through a cold mist. For this reason the Aquitanian and Saxontranslators of the good legend-writer were careful to add to his recitalthe lives of their own national saints.
I have read and collated a great many manuscripts of the "GoldenLegend." I know all those described by my learned colleague, M. PaulinParis, in his handsome catalogue of the MSS. of the Biblotheque du Roi.There were two among them which especially drew my attention. One isof the fourteenth century and contains a translation by Jean Belet; theother, younger by a century, presents the version of Jacques Vignay.Both come from the Colbert collection, and were placed on the shelves ofthat glorious Colbertine library by the Librarian Baluze--whose name Ican never pronounce without uncovering my head; for even in the centuryof the giants of erudition, Baluze astounds by his greatness. I knowalso a very curious codex in the Bigot collection; I know seventy-fourprinted editions of the work, commencing with the venerable ancestor ofall--the Gothic of Strasburg,
begun in 1471, and finished in 1475. Butno one of those MSS., no one of those editions, contains the legendsof Saints Ferreol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent, and Droctoveus; no onebears the name of the Clerk Alexander; no one, in find, came from theAbbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Compared with the MS. described by Mr.Thompson, they are only as straw to gold. I have seen with my eyes,I have touched with my fingers, an incontrovertible testimony to theexistence of this document. But the document itself--what has become ofit? Sir Thomas Raleigh went to end his days by the shores of the Lake ofComo, whither he carried with him a part of his literary wealth. Wheredid the books go after the death of that aristocratic collector? Wherecould the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander have gone?
"And why," I asked myself, "why should I have learned that this preciousbook exists, if I am never to possess it--never even to see it? I wouldgo to seek it in the burning heart of Africa, or in the icy regions ofthe Pole if I knew it were there. But I do not know where it is. I donot know if it be guarded in a triple-locked iron case by some jealousbiblomaniac. I do not know if it be growing mouldy in the attic of someignoramus. I shudder at the thought that perhaps its tore-out leaves mayhave been used to cover the pickle-jars of some housekeeper."
The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Page 1