The Salt Smugglers Read Online Free Page B

project the day after tomorrow.
    â€” It won’t be easy: there are piles and piles of books down there and we’ll probably have to turn the place upside down. But the book is here: I have seen it with my own eyes.
    â€” Just be careful about the books in the Saint-German-des-Prés collection, — on account of the rats ... A number of new species have been sighted, including the gray Russian rat which arrived in the wake of the Cossacks. True, this Russian rat managed to destroy the English rat, but now they are talking about a new rodent that has recently appeared on the scene. It’s called the Athens mouse and has apparently been multiplying like mad ever since it arrived here in the crates that were shipped from the university France has recently established in Athens ... »
    The curator dismissed my fears with a smile and took his leave, promising me his full attention to my request.
    Another idea came to mind: the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal is closed for the month, but I know the curator. — He is in town; he has the keys. He has been most
helpful to me in the past; I’m sure he would make an exception for me and allow me to see the book which is after all only a minor item in his library’s vast holdings.
    I was on my way to see him. But a dreadful thought stopped me dead in my tracks. It was the memory of a fantastic tale I had heard ages ago.
    The predecessor of the current curator had been a celebrated old man who was passionate about books; it was with great regret that he was finally forced to give up his cherished seventeenth-century editions late in life, but death carried him off in the end and the new curator took possession of his lodgings.
    The latter had just gotten married and was sleeping in peace next to his young wife when he was suddenly woken up, at one o’clock in the morning, by the violent ringing of the doorbell. The maid’s quarters were on another floor of the house. The curator gets up and goes to open the door.
    Nobody.
    He tries to figure out who it was: everybody is asleep in the house; — the concierge has seen nothing.
    The next night, at the very same hour, the bell again goes off with a repeated series of rings.
    Again, nobody at the door. The curator, who had been a teacher shortly before this, concludes that it is probably some aggrieved schoolboy who has hidden himself in the house, — or who has tied a cat to the bell by means of a slip knot attached to its tail ...
    On the third night, the curator instructs his concierge to remain on the landing with a candle until the fatal hour has passed; he promises him a reward if the bell does not ring.
    At one in the morning, the concierge is horrified to see that the cord of the bell is jerking up and down on its own and that its red tassel is crazily dancing across the wall. The curator in turn opens his bedroom door only to witness the concierge making signs of the cross in front of him.
    Â« It is the soul of your predecessor who has returned to haunt you.
    â€” Did you see him?
    â€” No, but you can’t see ghosts in candlelight.
    â€” Well, let’s try again tomorrow without candlelight.
    â€” Sir, you can go ahead and try on your own ... »
    After having given the matter further consideration, the curator decided not to try to get a glimpse of the ghost. They probably had a mass said for the ancient bibliophile, for the phenomenon never repeated itself again.
    And I was about to go ring this same bell! ... Who knows whether the ancient ghost himself might not greet me at the door?
    Besides, this library brings back many sad memories. I have known three of its curators over time, — the first of these was the original of the supposed ghost; the second, ever so brilliant, ever so generous, was one of my literary mentors; the last one was so helpful in allowing me access to his fine collections of engravings that I presented him with an edition of Faust