The Salt Smugglers Read Online Free Page A

during the grand siècle even the most minor clerk wrote in a style as florid as Bossuet’s. It is impossible not to admire the marvelous detachment of this police report which evinces the hope that the murderer will become more amenable to the resolution of his affairs ... As for the murder, the theft of the papers, the saber blows (some of which were probably also directed at the attorneys), they will all go unpunished because nobody inside or outside the family will ever press charges: — M. Le Pileur being too great a gentleman not to get away with this incident ...
    This is a noble remnant of those feudal manners which lingers on well into the final years of grand siècle under Mme de Maintenon’s reign.
    There is no further mention of this affair, — which has allowed me to forget my poor abbé for a moment; — but even though it lacks the embellishments of a novel, this police report nonetheless provides a number of historical silhouettes that could be cut out and used as background figures. Already everything is coming to life for me, reconstructed by my mind’s eye. I see d’Argenson in his office, Pontchartrain in his ministry, the Pontchartrain who (according to Saint-Simon) became an object of ridicule by calling himself de Pontchartrain and who, like many others, took his revenge against ridicule by inspiring terror.
    But to what avail is all this background preparation? Will they only allow me to set the scene for the events in the fashion of Froissart or Monstrelet? — They will probably claim that this is how Walter Scott goes about things, — and he is after all a novelist. I should probably just restrict myself to giving a straightforward synopsis of the history of the abbé de Bucquoy ... if and when I find it.

    I had reason to hope: M. R*** was going to take matters into his hands; — there were merely eight more days to wait. Besides, in the interim I still might be able to locate the book in some other public library.
    Unfortunately they were all closed, — except for the Mazarine. I therefore went off to disturb the silence of its magnificent and chilly halls. The library has a catalogue which is quite complete and which you are allowed to consult on your own; in ten minutes, it can help you solve any question whatsoever. But the staff on duty is so competent there is no need to bother the reference librarians or even to consult the catalogue. I addressed myself to one of them: somewhat taken aback, he turned my request over in his mind and replied, « We don’t have the book ... but I have a vague idea...»
    The curator is man well-known for his wit and encyclopedic erudition. He recognized me. « What do you need the abbé de Bucquoy for? For an opera libretto? I remember that charming opera you wrote ten years ago; the music was delightful. The second one was even more admirable. What a marvelous actress you had there ... But these days the censors would never allow you to do a play involving an abbé .
    â€” I need the book for something historical I’m working on. »
    He gave me a long, hard look, of the sort one might cast at someone requesting books on alchemy. « Oh I see, he said at last, it’s for an historical novel à la Dumas.
    â€” I have never written an historical novel, nor do I intend to: I have absolutely no desire to cost the newspapers for which I write four or five hundred francs a day in fines ... If I find I am incapable of writing straight history, I’ll just print the book as is. »
    He nodded his head and said, « We have it.
    â€” Oh?
    â€” I know where it is. It’s part of the collection of books that came to us from Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Which is why it is not yet catalogued ... It must be somewhere in the basement.
    â€” Ah, if you would be kind enough to ...
    â€” I’ll try to locate it for you; just give me a few days.
    â€” I’m starting in on my