THE CASTLE OF ERMENONVILLE THE ILLUMINATI. — THE KING OF PRUSSIA GABRIELLE AND ROUSSEAU THE TOMBS. — THE ABBOTS OF CHÂALIS

Ermenonville.

Leaving Châalis, you cross a few more clumps of trees before entering the Desert. The ‘desert’ here is large enough so that when you stand in the middle of it, it seems to fill the entire horizon, — and yet small enough so that a half hour’s walk takes you into one of most serene and charming landscapes in the world ... A slice of Swiss nature has been carved out of the local woods, René de Girardin having had the idea of transplanting the image of his native land to this region.

Several years before the Revolution, the castle of Ermenonville served as a meeting place for the Illuminati who were already silently dreaming up the future. Over the course of the celebrated suppers of Ermenonville, such figures as Saint-Germain, Mesmer, and Cagliostro delivered a series of inspired addresses in which they developed those ideas and paradoxes which would later be adopted by the so-called School of Geneva. — It would seem that in his younger days M. de Robespierre, (son of the founder of the Scottish Lodge of Arras) and, at a somewhat later date, Sénancour, Saint-Martin, Dupont de Nemours, and Cazotte all came to this castle (or to the nearby castle of Le Pelletier de Mortfontaine) in order set out their eccentric projects for the complete and utter transformation of a society so old, so decrepit that even its younger members looked like ancient codgers under their fashionable powdered wigs.

Saint-Germain belonged to an earlier generation, but he too came to Ermenonville. — It was he who showed Louis XV the image of his beheaded grandson in a steel mirror, just as Nostradamus had shown Marie de Medici the line of kings that would descend from her, — the fourth of whom was also decapitated.

But all this is mere child’s play. What truly bears these mystics out is an anecdote recounted by Beaumarchais (the village of Beaumarchais is located one away from Ermenonville, — land of legends): the Prussians had advanced within thirty leagues of Paris but suddenly and unexpectedly fell back when a vision appeared to their king and inspired to him to say almost like a knight of old: « Not one step farther! »

The French and German Illuminati were linked by their common affinities. Given the age-old sympathies and associations that bound together races sharing the same origins, the doctrines of Weisshaupt and Jacob Bœhme had easily penetrated into the ancient Frankish and Burgundian regions of France. The prime minister of the nephew of Frederick II was himself a member of the Illuminati. — Beaumarchais speculates that what had happened at Verdun was that Frederick William was somehow induced (perhaps during a seance of magnetism) to perceive a vision of his uncle who appeared to him and told him (as did Charles VI’s ghost) to turn back.

These weird events baffle the imagination; — but Beaumarchais, who was a confirmed skeptic, claims that this phantasmagoric scene was in reality concocted with the help of the French actor Fleury, who had previously played the role of Frederick II on the Parisian stage and who thereby was able carry off the illusion that eventually convinced the king of Prussia to withdraw from the confederation of kings leagued against France.

The memories associated with these parts weigh rather heavily on me; — so I am conveying all this information to you in somewhat pell-mell fashion (but rest assured, its factual basis is solid). There is an even more important detail that should not be overlooked: when this region was taken over by the Prussians in the disastrous wake of the Napoleonic Wars, the general in charge, having learned that the tomb of Jean-Jacques Rousseau was located at Ermenonville, exempted the entire district up to and including Compiègne from the burdens of military occupation. — I think his name was the Prince of Anhalt: — a name that should go down in history.

Rousseau only resided at Ermenonville for a relatively brief period. If he eventually accepted the asylum that was offered to him here, it was because he had long been familiar with the site: over the course of the walks he used to take when he lived in the Hermitage at Montmorency, he had recognized that the countryside over in this direction offered the botanist an unusual range of plants, given the variety of the terrain.

We stopped off at the Inn of the White Cross, where Rousseau had briefly lodged upon his arrival in the area. He subsequently moved to a house on the other side of the castle now occupied by a grocer. — M. René de Girardin later offered him an unoccupied lodge facing the lodge of the castle’s guardian. — It was there that he died.

We left the inn and set off for the misty woods. As the autumn haze gradually lifted, we caught sight of the blue mirrors of the lakes, — the entire countryside reminiscent of the scenery painted on snuffboxes of the period ...: — the Isle of Poplars, rising beyond the ornamental ponds that pour, — at least when the water is working, — into the artificial grotto ... — A landscape straight out of the idylls of Gessner.

The rock formations one encounters as one strolls through the woods are covered with poetic inscriptions. Here:

Time cannot outlast this deathless mass.

Elsewhere:

This site is the scene of those valorous races

That signal the stag’s ever-wanton graces.

Or again, beneath a bas-relief representing Druids cutting mistletoe:

Lo, see our ancestors in their lonely woods!

These magniloquent lines would seem to be by Roucher ... — Delille, at any rate, would have come up with something less bombastic.

M. René de Girardin was also a poetaster. — But he was a true gentleman as well. I think he was the author of the following lines, which may be found on a nearby fountain depicting Neptune and Amphi trite, — whose slight décolletage recalls the angels and saints of Châalis:

Passerby, having quit those flow’ry shores
Which my crystal waters so adored,
I have come here to serve your desires,
To offer man whatever he requires.
As you draw your treasures from my well,
Be aware of Nature’s gentle spell,
Let my liquid tributes ever inspire
Those peaceful souls who here retire.

I won’t comment on the formal qualities of these lines; — what I admire above all is the honorableness of the man’s intentions. — His influence can be deeply felt throughout the region. — You can notice it, for example, in the dance halls (where the benches reserved for the old folks are still visible) or in the archery ranges (with their ceremonial victory stands) ... or in the marble columns of the circular temples on the banks of rivers and ponds, dedicated to Venus Genetrix or to Hermes the Comforter. — Back then, all this mythology was laden with deep philosophical purport.

Rousseau’s tomb has remained exactly what it was: an ancient, simple monument surrounded in picturesque fashion by bare poplars and reflected in the still waters of the pond. Except that the small boat that used to ferry visitors over to the gravesite is now underwater ... And instead of gracefully gliding around the isle, the swans for some reason prefer the muddy waters of a stream that flows out of the pond between the reddish branches of the willows and then flushes into a washing-pool near the road.

We made our way back to the castle. — Constructed under Henri IV and then redone under Louis XV, it was probably built on the ruins of a far earlier structure, — for one can still see the remains of a crenellated tower whose style clashes with the rest of the building, as well as the traces of earlier drawbridges and posterns above the water-filled moat that surrounds its massive foundations.

The keeper would not let us visit the inside of the castle because it was still inhabited. — Artists have greater luck when trying to visit princely castles, for their current residents at least feel they owe something to the nation.

We were merely allowed to walk around the banks of the large lake, the left side of which is dominated by the so-called Tower of Gabrielle, which is all that remains of an ancient castle. A peasant who was accompanying us said: « Here is the tower where the fair Gabrielle was shut up ... Every evening Rousseau used to come and strum his guitar under her window, and the king, who was jealous, used to spy on him and had him killed in the end. »

This is how legends are born. Several centuries from now, this will be taken for fact. — Henri IV, Gabrielle and Rousseau are the major names that are remembered in this region. A mere two hundred years later, the memory of these two men has been conflated and Rousseau is gradually becoming a contemporary of Henri IV. Since Rousseau is beloved by the locals, they imagine that the king was jealous of him because his mistress preferred this man who felt so much sympathy for the sufferings of the oppressed. This imaginary scenario is perhaps truer than one might believe. — Rousseau, who refused the hundred louis offered to him by Madame de Pompadour, brought down the royal house founded by Henri. The entire edifice came tumbling down, — leaving in its wake the immortal image of Rousseau, his feet planted on the ruins.

As for his songs, some of which we recently saw at Compiègne, they celebrated other loves than Gabrielle. But are not the incarnations of ideal beauty as eternal as genius?

Upon leaving the park, we climbed the small hill leading to the nearby church. It is quite ancient, but far less exceptional than the other churches in the area. The cemetery was open; we inspected the tomb of De Vic, — a comrade-in-arms of Henri IV, — who received the domain of Ermenonville as a gift from the king. The inscription on this family tomb ends with an abbé. — Then there are the miscellaneous graves of daughters who married commoners, — a fate shared by many of the ancient houses. The ancient and virtually undecipherable tombstones of two abbés lie toward the edge of the terrace. Then, near a path, a simple stone bearing the inscription: Here lies Almazor. Is this the grave of a fool? — of a lackey? — of a dog? The stone does not say.

Looking out from the terrace of the cemetery, you get a fine view of the countryside, with glints of water here and there among the pines, the green oaks, and the great reddish trees. To the left, the sandstone expanse of the Desert has something Druidic to it. The tomb of Rousseau can be made out to the left, and slightly further on, the outline of a marble temple dedicated to a vanished goddess, — the goddess of Truth, no doubt.

It must have been a banner day when the delegation dispatched by the National Assembly came to Ermenonville to fetch the mortal remains of the philosopher in order to transfer them to the Pantheon. — Strolling around the village, you are immediately struck by the wholesome comeliness of its young girls, — beneath their large straw hats, they almost look Swiss ... The educational theories proposed by the author of Émile seem to have been put into practice here; a regimen based on sports, gymnastics, dance, and arts and crafts has made these young people healthy and energetic while at the same time developing their manual and intellectual dexterity.

I may have erred in my analysis of the escutcheon of the founder of the chapel of Châalis.

Someone has since supplied me with additional information concerning the abbots de Châalis. « Robert de la Tourette in particular, who was abbot from 1501 to 1522, undertook major restorations ... » His tomb may be seen in front of the high altar.

« Then you have the Medici: Hippolyte d’Este, cardinal of Ferrara, 1554; — Aloys d’Este, 1586.

« Then: Louis, cardinal de Guise, 1601; — Charles-Louis de Lorraine, 1630. »

It should be noted that the d’Este family only has a single eaglet at 2 and 3, whereas I saw three of them at 1 and 4 in the quartered shield.

« Charles II, cardinal de Bourbon (later, Charles X the Elder), — lieutenant general of the Île-de-France from 1551 on, — had a son named Poullain. »

I can easily believe that this cardinal-king had a bastard son; but I cannot understand these three eaglets in 2 and 1. Those of Lorraine are on a bend. Please excuse these details, but the key to the history of France is a good knowledge of heraldry ... And there is absolutely nothing we poor authors can do about it!

Ver.

I am very fond of this route, — I remember it from my childhood, — which, passing in front of the castle, links the two parts of the village of Ermenonville with four low towers at either end.

Sylvain says to me: « Now that we have had a look at Rousseau’s tomb, we should move on to Dammartin; from there, we’ll find transportation to Soissons and Longueval. Let’s ask those washerwomen in front of the castle for directions.

— Just follow the road to the left or the road to the right, they said ... Either way you’ll get to Ver or Eve, — then you’ll pass through Othys and after two more hours on foot, you’ll reach Dammartin. »

The misinformation supplied by these lovely young ladies launched us on something of a wild-goose chase. — I should also mention that it was raining.

« Let’s ask for another directions », said Sylvain (not unreasonably, if not in flawless French), « from the first people we run into. »

The first were three men making their way single file out of a small path onto the road.

They were : the steward of M. Ernest de Girardin, — followed by an architect, recognizable by the measuring stick he was carrying in lieu of a cane, and then a peasant in a blue smock. We were on the verge of asking further directions from them.

« Should we offer our greetings to the steward? I asked Sylvain. After all, he’s wearing a black suit. »

Sylvain replied, « By no means. It should be up to the locals to offer their greetings first. »

The steward passed by, rather surprised that we had not tipped our hats to him ... as no doubt any number of hats had previously been tipped to him.

The architect followed behind the steward, blind to the world. Only the peasant doffed his cap. We replied in kind.

« As you can see, said Sylvain, we have refused to lower ourselves ... let’s wait till we meet up with some woodcutter to ask for directions. »

The road was in very poor shape; the ruts were so filled with water that we had to walk on the grassy shoulder. And even so, our progress was often impeded by the huge thistles, — half-frozen but still spiky, — that came up to our chests.

After having progressed a league through the woods, we realized that since neither Ver nor Eve nor Othys was anywhere in sight, we were obviously on the wrong track.

Suddenly there was a clearing to our right, — one of those dark open spaces that seem extraordinarily bright when encountered in the middle of the woods...

There was a kind of primitive log cabin there with a thatched roof. A woodcutter was sitting in front of the door, smoking a pipe.

« How do we get to Ver?...

— That’s a long ways off ... If you keep on this road, you’ll end up at Montaby.

— But we want to go to Ver, — or Eve ...

— In that case, you’ll have to turn back for about a half a league (you can translate that into meters if you wish, to stay within the law), and then when you get to the archery range, take a right. Once you get out of the woods and back on open ground, everybody will be able to point you toward Ver. »

Well, one good turn deserves another. And yet the woodcutter refused the offer of a cigar, — a mistake on his part, I think.

We found the archery range with its victory stand and its ceremonial seats for the seven judges. Then we followed a path that must be quite lovely when the trees are green. We sang a local song from these parts to liven up the loneliness of the surroundings and to speed us on our way, a song that must have often lifted the spirits of wandering journeymen:

After my day was done ... — I went on my way!
(repeat)
And on my path I meet... — A girl so sweet.
I took her by the hand ... — And led her into the
woods.
When she was in the woods ... — She started to
weep.
— Ah, my little sweet ... — Why do you weep?
— I weep for my virtue ... — Which you want to
steal!
— Don’t weep, my sweet ... — That’s something
I’d never do.
I took her by the hand ... — I led her to the woods.
When we were in the fields ... — She began to sing.
— What is it, my sweet ... — That causeth you to
sing?
— I sing of what a fool you are ... — To have let me
escape:
You had a bird in hand ... — And let her fly away,
etc.

These songs can go on and on ... although the meaning here is quite clear. What strikes me above all is the mixture of unrhymed lines and assonances, — all of which remain perfectly musical. There’s a finer example of this no doubt in the song whose first line I quoted a while back and whose tune has a kind of sublime and lilting melancholy to it:

Beneath the white rose tree
The lady makes her way:
As bright as day ...
As white as snow!
In the garden of her father
Three horsemen
Fell upon her! ...

« Au jardin de son père,/ Trois cavaliers l’ont pris. » In today’s French, shaped as it is by the Académie Française and the vagaries of fashion, this last word (she being the direct object of the verb) should of course read prise; — but I’m just trying to underscore the musical possibilities of unrhymed verse. This is how the Germans, back in the days of (the much-imitated) Klopstock, composed poetry whose rhythms followed the classical prosody of longs and shorts.

One will say that prose is the only thing we know how to write. — But wherein does poetry lie? ... in measure, in rhyme, — or in the idea?

The road was devilishly long, though I don’t know how long the devil is, — this is the kind of fool question only a Parisian would ask himself. — While we were still in the woods, Sylvain sang the following round which must date back to the days of Louis XIV:

High-ho, a horseman, ho
Riding back from Flanders, oh ...

The rest of the song is difficult to summarize. — The refrain is addressed to the drummer:

Drum drum the call to arms
Drum till the break of day!

When Sylvain, — the strong silent type — gets started singing there’s no stopping him. — He sang me some sort of song about the Red Monks who were the original residents of Châalis. — And what monks they were ! They were in fact Templars! — The king and the pope got together to have them burned alive.

Let’s drop the red monks.

When we got out of the woods, we found ourselves among cultivated fields. We were carrying off a good portion of our native soil on the soles of our shoes; — but we redeposited most of it in the fields further along the way ... And we finally made it to Ver, — which, for a tiny village, turned out to be fairly sizeable.

The innkeeper was most friendly and her daughter most attractive, — with her lovely chestnut brown hair, her soft clean features, and that charming way of talking they have here in this land of mists, where even the youngest of girls have a contralto quality to their voices.

« So here you are, my boys, said the innkeeper ... Well, let’s toss a log on the fire.

— If it’s not too much trouble, we’d love a bite to eat.

— Would you like to start things off with some onion soup?

— That sounds just fine; what do you have to follow it up with?

— After the soup, there will be game. »

We had clearly come to the right place.

Sylvain is a talented and thoughtful fellow. Even though he never had much formal schooling, he is anxious to improve himself and to fill the holes in his scanty education.

He has his own ideas about everything. — He can assemble a pocket watch . . . or a compass. — The only thing that bothers him about watches is that you can’t get their chains to stretch far enough. And the only thing that bothers him about compasses is that their needles can only register the magnetic attraction of the pole. — And as for everything else, — as for the causes or uses of this and that, the information available can simply not be trusted!

The inn where we sought refuge is somewhat isolated, but solidly built: its inner courtyard is made up of a series of galleries constructed entirely along Valachian lines . . . Sylvain has managed to steal a kiss from the innkeeper’s daughter (who is very nicely built indeed), and we are sitting here, warming our feet by the fire, petting the two hunting dogs, watching the spit turn above the flames . . . just waiting for dinner . . .

« Let me tell you the plot, said Sylvain, of a play that I’d like to write about the death of Rousseau.

— O unhappy fellow! I said to him, you’re considering a career as a playwright?

— What can you expect? Everybody has to follow the path laid down for them by Nature. »

I cast him a severe glance. — He started reading:

At La Chevrette.

Grimm learns from his mistress, Mme d’Épinay, that she is illegitimately with child and that she will have to devise some sort of medical excuse to go into hiding in Geneva. She wants Rousseau to accompany her. Mme d’Houdetot, whom Rousseau is in love with, refuses to help her sister carry out this plan. Rousseau also refuses to come to her aid. General bitterness, recrimination, jealousy, etc. They threaten to inform his rival Saint-Lambert of this affair, — and to have him expelled from the Hermitage. Rousseau replies to all this by showering abuse upon them. He leaves the scene, leaving them to plot his ruin.

Montmorency.

Snow covers the ground. Rousseau in an open pavilion, « with no other fire than his heart’s », is writing a letter to d’Alembert. He is full of energy. At moments, he strikes into song and sings the melody of the Spartiates , lashing out at his enemies. Thérèse brings him his lunch, — a bit of wine, bread and water. — While she is serving chicken and claret to a stranger (who kisses her at the window), Grimm arrives asking for Rousseau, comically listing all the grudges that he and his friends hold against him and in the end asking him to copy out some music. Rousseau calms down and boasts about his talents as a music copyist. A gift from the Maréchale is brought for Thérèse. Grimm ironically congratulates his stoic friend on all the gifts he has been receiving. — The latter is angered by this, insisting he has no knowledge of these. Grimm withdraws, not believing a word he has heard. Rousseau calls over Thérèse and complains bitterly: « You’re bringing dishonor upon me, etc. » — The bookseller Duchesne appears, saying that he doesn’t dare publish Rousseau’s Émile without suppressing the Savoyard Vicar section. Rousseau refuses to agree to this, observing that his Dutch publisher has not requested this. Duchesne replies that this edition is certain to be cut to pieces by the censor. Rousseau, who has been sent into a rage by this piece of news, notices that Saint-Lambert has appeared on the scene; the latter, having been alerted by Mme d’Épinay, accuses Rousseau of having betrayed his friendship. Rousseau remains at a loss for words.

Aubonne.

Rousseau has wanted to see Mme d’Houdetot again. Saint-Lambert’s jealousy has reduced her to tears. Rousseau goes as far as to offer to take his own life. « You see, he explains, Parliament has issued a warrant for my arrest. So just say the word and I will offer myself up to the blade of the executioner who has already lacerated my book. » Saint-Lambert enters. He has heard everything. He opens his arms wide and offers his forgiveness, — adding that Messieurs Luxembourg and Malesherbes have asked him to retrieve their compromising letters and to help him make his escape. — Rousseau at this point launches into a tirade against the ruling class, the magistrates, and the clergy, promising that he will get his revenge on Archbishop Beaumont, who had the temerity to attack him from the pulpit, and that he, Rousseau, will go into exile with the full and joyous knowledge that he has shaken this unjust society to its very foundations, while predicting the full-scale catastrophe of a revolution soon to come. (He takes his leave.)

Motiers-Travers.

Thérèse and the stranger combine efforts to convince Rousseau to leave Switzerland; they recall what they have already done to bring this about: the scene of the children who were recruited to lapidate him at Motiers, the denunciation made to the local consistory, etc.; they conclude that they will have the stranger lodge some sort of complaint about the scandalous goings-on. This way they will be able to go live in a large city where they will be protected from gossip and have greater access to certain resources. Rousseau appears; he is sick and wearing his Armenian outfit; — he has just been gathering plants for his herbals and holds some hemlock and some periwinkles in his hand. He rambles on about Mme de Warens, about his suicide, about the injustice of mankind, about his sufferings, about his love for his native land. Thérèse hands him a package that has just arrived from she knows not where; he opens it and finds it contains nothing but libels of him. While his irritation mounts as he reads through these slanders, a delegation from the consistory is ushered in: it seeks guarantees that he will give up on his project of approaching the communion table because this would create too great a scandal . . . Rousseau again loses his temper, railing against all the wretched persecutions of which he has been the victim. — In the midst of this scene, the stranger makes an appearance, demanding that Rousseau pay him back the nine francs he had lent him when he was in need. Hearing this, Rousseau orders him out of his sight and threatens to report him to the Neufchatel police; but he is too exhausted and collapses, overwhelmed, saying to Thérèse: « Let’s get out of here. — But where to? — Wherever you wish. »

Ermenonville.

Seated in front of a little hut, Rousseau is talking with a young boy. The boy comes and goes, bringing back plants. « What is this? — Hemlock? — Bring me all the hemlock you can find. » Thérèse brings his coffee to Rousseau and notices a pistol in his hands: « What are you up to? — I’m going to put an end to an existence that has been one long agony on account of you. » He knows about everything and tells her as much. « The father of the children whom I have been accused of abandoning to the public orphanage is a groom in this very house, etc. » Thérèse falls to her knees. « It’s too late! . . . Just keep in mind that in the eyes of the world I have allowed you to bear a name that is destined for eternal fame.» The boy returns; Rousseau tells Thérèse to leave: refusing to budge, she points to the pistol. Rousseau finally surrenders it to her and she takes her leave. Then, while chatting with the boy, he squeezes the juice of the hemlock plants into his coffee which he proceeds to calmly drink while caressing the child. « Will you be attending the party at the chateau this evening? — No. — Why not? Monsieur Diderot, Monsieur Saint-Lambert, Madame d’Houdetot, etc. will be attending. » His writhings frighten the boy, who runs away. Rousseau finishes himself off with another pistol that he pulls from his pocket. The noise causes all the guests to come running. Madame d’Houdetot is the first to arrive and throws herself onto him to pick him up. — Rousseau is dead . . .

This, though its formulation requires a certain suspension of disbelief, is the piece that sums up Sylvain’s ideas, — and which he hopes to develop into a play. He was unfortunate enough to come across a stray volume of the end of Rousseau’s Confessions and his imagination did the rest ...

We can only bemoan the fact that he never received a proper classical education . . .

To the Director of the National

Sir,

It is certainly no fault of mine if there has been a ten-day hiatus in the elaboration of the historical narrative you requested of me. The work that was to have provided the basis for this narrative, namely the official history of the abbé de Bucquoy, was due to be sold on November 20th but in fact was not put up for sale until the 30th, either because it had been withdrawn for some reason (which was what I was told) or because the number of items in the catalogue was such that the book had to wait ten days before coming up for auction.

There was a chance the work would end up abroad, like so many of our books. The information I had received from Belgium referred only to the existence of Dutch translations of the book, but there was no mention of its original edition, printed in Frankfurt, with the German on facing pages.

As you are aware, I had unsuccessfully attempted to locate the book in Paris. It was not to be found in the public libraries, and the various rare book dealers I had visited had not set sight on it for some time. According to them, there was only one bookseller, M. Toulouse, who was likely to have a copy of it.

M. Toulouse specializes in books having to do with religious issues. He asked me what exactly the book I was looking for was about, and then said to me: « My dear sir, I do not have a copy of it on hand... But even if I did, I could not guarantee I would sell it to you. »

I understood that because he generally sold books to the clergy, he obviously wanted nothing to do with a son of Voltaire.

I replied that I could just as well do without the book, having already managed to acquire a fairly general idea of its title character.

« And this how people write history these days! » he sneered.⁹

You’ll probably tell me that I should have just borrowed the history of the abbé de Bucquoy from M. de Montmerqué or some other bibliophile. To which I would reply that a serious bibliophile never lends his books. In fact he does not even read his books, for fear of wearing them out.

There was a famous bibliophile who had a friend; — this friend had fallen in love with a sextodecimo edition of Anacreon, printed in Lyon in the sixteenth century and bound together with the poetry of Bion, Moschus, and Sappho. The owner of the book would not have defended his wife as vigorously as this sexto. Every time his friend dropped by for lunch, he would cross through the library with a studied indifference, casting a secret covetous glance at the Anacreon.

One day he said to his friend, « What are you planning to do with that poorly bound sixteenmo with the cut pages? I’d be happy to trade you the Italian version of the Dream of Polyphile in the Aldine editio princeps, with engravings by Bellini. The book is only of interest to me because I want to round out my collection of Greek poets. »

The owner merely smiled.

« What else could you want in exchange?

— Nothing, I don’t like swapping books.

— What if I also threw in my Romaunt of the Rose, with annotations in the hand of Marguerite de Valois?

— Nothing doing ... Let’s just drop the subject.

— You know I’m not a rich man, but I’d gladly offer a thousand francs.

— Forget it . . .

— Well, fifteen hundred then.

— Money matters shouldn’t come between friends. »

The bibliophile’s resistance only served to whet the desire of his friend. After several more offers, all of which were rejected, the friend, unable to contain his passion any longer, blurted out:

« Well, I shall have the book at your death, when they sell off your estate.

— At my death? But I’m younger than you are . . .

— That may be, but you have a wicked cough.

— And what about your sciatica?

— You can make it to eighty with sciatica! »

I’ll stop here. This discussion could easily be a scene out of Molière or one of those illustrations of human folly that only Erasmus was capable of treating in light-hearted fashion . . . The long and the short of it was that the bibliophile died several months later and his friend was able to get the book for six hundred francs.

« And to think that he refused to sell it to me for fifteen hundred», he would inevitably remark when showing off his treasure. But, once one got off the topic of this book (which had been the only cloud in their fifty-year friendship), his eyes would mist with tears as he affectionately remembered his fine friend.

This anecdote may serve a useful purpose in an age when the art of collecting, be it of books, autographs, or objets d’art, is no longer generally understood in France. It may also explain some of the difficulties I encountered in trying to procure the Abbé de Bucquoy.

Last Saturday, at seven in the evening, I returned to Paris from Soissons, — where I had been looking for further information on the Bucquoys, — in order to be present at Techener’s for the auctioning off of the library of M. Motteley, — an auction that has been going on for some time now and that was the object of an article in the Indépendance de Bruxelles the day before yesterday.

An auction of books or of curiosities holds the same attraction for the collector as the green felt of a gaming table holds for the gambler. The paddle with which the auctioneer pushes the books toward the buyers and rakes in the money makes this comparison all the more exact.

The bidding was lively. There was one book alone that went for six hundred francs. At a quarter of ten, the History of the abbé de Bucquoy was put on the auction block at twenty-five francs . . . When the price reached fifty-five francs, the regulars and even M. Techener himself called it quits: there was just one other person left bidding against me.

At sixty-five francs, my competitor bowed out.

The mallet of the auctioneer¹⁰ awarded me the book for sixty-six francs.

I subsequently had to come up with another three francs and twenty centimes to pay the auction fee.

I have since learned that my competitor was a representative from the Bibliothèque Nationale.

The book is thus mine; I am now in a position to continue on with my work.

Yours, etc.

GÉRARD DE NERVAL