The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

by Anatole France

  December 30, 1859.

  "Therese! don't you hear the bell? Somebody has been ringing at the doorfor the last quarter of an hour?"

  Therese does not answer. She is chattering downstairs with theconcierge, for sure. So that is the way you observe your old master'sbirthday? You desert me even on the eve of Saint-Sylvestre! Alas! if Iam to hear any kind wishes to-day, they must come up from the ground;for all who love me have long been buried. I really don't know what Iam still living for. There is the bell again!... I get up slowly frommy seat at the fire, with my shoulders still bent from stooping over it,and go to the door myself. Whom do I see at the threshold? It is nota dripping love, and I am not an old Anacreon; but it is a very prettylittle boy of about ten years old. He is alone; he raises his face tolook at me. His cheeks are blushing; but his little pert nose gives onean idea of mischievous pleasantry. He has feathers in his cap, and agreat lace-ruff on his jacket. The pretty little fellow! He holds inboth arms a bundle as big as himself, and asks me if I am MonsieurSylvestre Bonnard. I tell him yes; he gives me the bundle, tells me hismamma sent it to me, and then he runs downstairs.

  I go down a few steps; I lean over the balustrade, and see the littlecap whirling down the spiral of the stairway like a feather in the wind."Good-bye, my little boy!" I should have liked so much to question him.But what, after all, could I have asked? It is not polite to questionchildren. Besides, the package itself will probably give me moreinformation than the messenger could.

  It is a very big bundle, but not very heavy. I take it into my library,and there untie the ribbons and unfasten the paper wrappings; and Isee--what? a log! a first-class log! a real Christmas log, but so lightthat I know it must be hollow. Then I find that it is indeed composed oftwo separate pieces, opening on hinges, and fastened with hooks. I slipthe hooks back, and find myself inundated with violets! Violets! theypour over my table, over my knees, over the carpet. They tumble into myvest, into my sleeves. I am all perfumed with them.

  "Therese! Therese! fill me some vases with water, and bring them here,quick! Here are violets sent to us I know not from what country norby what hand; but it must be from a perfumed country, and by a verygracious hand.... Do you hear me, old crow?"

  I have put all the violets on my table--now completely covered bythe odorous mass. But there is still something in the log...a book--amanuscript. It is...I cannot believe it, and yet I cannot doubt it....It is the "Legende Doree"!--It is the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander!Here is the "Purification of the Virgin" and the "Coronation ofProserpine";--here is the legend of Saint Droctoveus. I contemplate thisviolet-perfumed relic. I turn the leaves of it--between which the darkrich blossoms have slipped in here and there; and, right opposite thelegend of Saint-Cecilia, I find a card bearing this name:

  "Princess Trepof."

  Princess Trepof!--you who laughed and wept by turns so sweetly under thefair sky of Agrigentum!--you, whom a cross old man believed to be only afoolish little woman!--to-day I am convinced of your rare and beautifulfolly; and the old fellow whom you now overwhelm with happiness willgo to kiss your hand, and give you back, in another form, this preciousmanuscript, of which both he and science owe you an exact and sumptuouspublication!

  Therese entered my study just at that moment; she seemed to be very muchexcited.

  "Monsieur!" she cried, "guess whom I saw just now in a carriage, with acoat-of-arms painted on it, that was stopping before the door?"

  "Parbleu!--Madame Trepof," I exclaimed.

  "I don't know anything about any Madame Trepof," answered myhousekeeper. "The woman I saw just now was dressed like a duchess, andhad a little boy with her, with lace-frills all along the seams of hisclothes. And it was that same little Madame Coccoz you once sent a logto, when she was lying-in here about eleven years ago. I recognized herat once."

  "What!" I exclaimed, "you mean to say it was Madame Coccoz, the widow ofthe almanac-peddler?"

  "Herself, Monsieur! The carriage-door was open for a minute to lether little boy, who had just come from I don't know where, get in.She hasn't changed scarcely at all. Well, why should those womenchange?--they never worry themselves about anything. Only the Coccozwoman looks a little fatter than she used to be. And the idea of awoman that was taken in here out of pure charity coming to show off hervelvets and diamonds in a carriage with a crest painted on it! Isn't itshameful!"

  "Therese!" I cried, in a terrible voice, "if you ever speak to me againabout that lady except in terms of the deepest respect, you and I willfall out!...Bring me the Sevres vases to put those violets in, which nowgive the City of Books a charm it never had before."

  While Therese went off with a sigh to get the Sevres vases, I continuedto contemplate those beautiful scattered violets, whose odour spread allabout me like the perfume of some sweet presence, some charming soul;and I asked myself how it had been possible for me never to recogniseMadame Coccoz in the person of the Princess Trepof. But that vision ofthe young widow, showing me her little child on the stairs, had beena very rapid one. I had much more reason to reproach myself for havingpassed by a gracious and lovely soul without knowing it.

  "Bonnard," I said to myself, "thou knowest how to decipher old texts;but thou dost not know how to read in the Book of Life. That giddylittle Madame Trepof, whom thou once believed to possess no more soulthan a bird, has expended, in pure gratitude, more zeal and finer tactthan thou didst ever show for anybody's sake. Right royally hath sherepaid thee for the log-fire of her churching-day!

  "Therese! Awhile ago you were a magpie; now you are becoming a tortoise!Come and give some water to these Parmese violets."

  PART II--THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE