The Salt Smugglers (10 page)

Several weeks ago, I was sketching out the piece you have agreed to publish and was pursuing preparatory research into the Bucquoys, — whose name has always echoed through my thoughts like some childhood memory. I happened to be passing through Senlis with a friend of mind, a very tall Breton with a black beard. We had caught an early train to Saint-Maixent, then had taken the coach that crosses the woods along the ancient route to Flanders. When we got to Senlis, we were foolhardy enough to stop off for a drink at the busiest café in town.

The place was filled with gendarmes lounging around with that particular ease characteristic of off-duty soldiers. Some were playing dominos, others were playing billiards.

If they were somewhat taken aback by our Parisian
beards and behavior, they certainly gave no sign of it that evening.

The following day we were having lunch at the excellent hotel of the
Sow on the Run
(I swear I am not making this up) when a brigadier came up to us and politely asked for our passports.

Excuse these minor details, — but they may be of interest to readers ...

We answered him in the same fashion that, according to a local song, a certain soldier was said to have answered the constabulary ... (I grew up with this song):

A nicely turned reply. But the refrain is frightening:

Which would seem to indicate that things did not turn out well for the soldier in the end ... In our case, the denouement was somewhat happier. Having been asked for our passports, we courteously replied that they were normally not required when visiting the outskirts of Paris. The brigadier saluted and withdrew without a word.

Over lunch we had vaguely discussed the idea of proceeding on to Ermenonville. When the weather took a turn for the worse, we changed our minds and went to reserve our seats on the Chantilly coach that would get us back toward Paris.

As we were about to leave, a police officer flanked by two gendarmes came up to us and said: « Your papers please! »

We repeated the line we had already used.

« In that case, gentlemen, said the policeman, you are under arrest. »

My Breton friend was seething, which was not helping the situation.

I said to him, « Calm down. Let me handle this, I virtually qualify as a member of the diplomatic corps ... Over the course of my travels I have come face to face with kings, pashas, and even padishahs. I know how to deal with authorities.

«
Monsieur le commissaire
, I said to the police officer (one should always address people by their rightful titles), I have traveled to England on three occasions and was never asked to show my passport except upon leaving France ... I have just come back from Germany, where I traveled through ten sovereign states, — including Hesse: — even the Prussians never asked me for my passport.

— Well, I'm asking you for it here in France.

— You're aware that criminals always have their papers in order ...

— Not always ... »

He had me there.

« I have lived in these parts for seven years; I even own some property around here ...

— But you have no papers?

— Correct ... Do you think that a potential suspect would just saunter in for a drink in a café filled with off-duty gendarmes?

— It might be just another ruse to escape detection. »

I saw I was dealing with a mastermind here.

«
Monsieur le commissaire
, I am in fact a writer; I am in the area to do research into the Bucquoy de Longueval family; I'm trying to locate their ancestral seat and the ruins of their former castles. »

The police officer's face lit up:

« Ah, Monsieur is a writer? Well so am I! I wrote poetry as a young man ... I composed a tragedy ... »

We were clearly not yet out of the woods; — the police officer was threatening to invite us home to dinner in order to read us his tragedy. I had to plead urgent business in Paris before they allowed us to get on the Chantilly coach, the departure of which had been delayed by our arrest.

I have no need to assure you that I am continuing to supply you with absolutely factual details about my experiences as a painstaking researcher.

P.S. Would you be afraid to insert the continuation of the tale of the great aunt of the abbé de Bucquoy in tomorrow's installment? I have been informed that given the present state of affairs this might be a dangerous course of action. — And yet, it's straight history.

Those who do not care for hunting will never fully understand the beauty of autumn landscapes. — At this very moment, despite the morning mist, we are looking at vistas worthy of the Old Dutch Masters. In castles and in museums one still recaptures the spirit of the painters of the North, — a pink or bluish tint to the skies, a few leaves here and there on the trees, fields in the distance, the odd rural scene in the foreground.

Watteau's
Voyage à Cythère
was conceived among the thin variegated mists of this region. His Cythera was modeled on one of the islets created by the flooding of the Oise and Aisne, — these rivers which are so calm and so peaceful in the summer.

The lyrical tone of these observations should not astonish you; — tired of all the senseless arguments and sterile hubbub of Paris, I am resting up amid these green and fertile fields; — I regather strength here in my motherland.

Regardless of our philosophical convictions, we are all somehow rooted in our ancestral ground. You cannot carry along the ashes of your fathers on the soles of your shoes, — and even the poorest of mortals retains some sort of blessed memory of those who once loved him. All the world's religions or philosophies enjoin mankind to worship its memories.

I am writing you on All Souls' Day; — please excuse the melancholy overtones. I arrived in Senlis yesterday, having crossed through some of the loveliest and saddest country one can see at this time of the year. The reds of the oaks and poplars against the dark greens of the grass, the white trunks of the birches rising out of the briar and bramble, the majestic sweep of this road that reaches all the way to Flanders and that now and then climbs to a vantage point from which you can glimpse a wide vista of misty forests, — all this plunged me into a reverie. When I got to Senlis, the town was in the midst of festivities. The bells, — the very bells which Rousseau used to love hearing in the distance, — were ringing out on all sides. Groups of young girls were promenading down the streets or were gathered in front of doorways giggling and chattering away. Perhaps I am the victim of an illusion, but I have yet to come across
an ugly girl in Senlis ... or maybe it's just that the ugly ones never show their faces!

No; — the blood tends to be very good here, no doubt on account of the purity of the air, the quality of the water, and the quantity of food. Senlis has been protected from the great rush of the Northern Line, whose rails are sweeping the local populations toward Germany. — I have never been able to figure out why the Northern Line avoids this region, — and instead makes a huge loop around the area that includes Montmorency, Luzarches, Gonesse, and a number of other towns that might have profited by the direct rail link. The reason may be that the people with influence over the railroad wanted it to pass through their own properties. — A quick glance at any map will bear out the accuracy of this observation.

It is only fitting to pay a visit to the cathedral of Senlis on a feast day such as this. It has recently been restored and its fine escutcheon with the town's coat of arms on a field of fleur-de-lis has been remounted on the lateral portal. The bishop himself was officiating, — and the nave was crowded with the local nobles and gentry who still live in the region.

Upon leaving the cathedral, I admired the last rays of the setting sun upon the crumbling, ivy-covered towers of the Roman fortifications. — As I passed by the priory, I noticed a group of young girls sitting on its doorsteps.

They were all singing; the oldest one among them was acting as the conductor, standing in front of them, clapping her hands to indicate the beat.

« Come on, young ladies, let's start at the top; the littlest girls are not following! ... I want to hear that little girl over there on the left, the first one over on the second step: — come on, let's hear you sing it alone. »

In a soft yet resonant voice the little girl sang:

Yet another tune I had grown up with! Childhood memories surge back more vividly midway through life, — like some palimpsest whose original text suddenly reappears after the manuscript has been chemically treated.

The little girls then launched into another song, — one more memory:

« Oh you little devils, said a solid old peasant who was standing next to me all ears, you're just too adorable for words! ... What about dancing for us now? »

The little girls got up from the steps and proceeded to perform an unusual dance that reminded me of the dances I had seen girls doing in the Greek isles.

They all lined up, — as we say in the region, —
à la queue leleu
, that is, Indian file. Then a boy takes the hands of the girl who is first in line and leads her backwards, while the other girls all hold on to each other's arms from behind. This creates a snake which first uncoils in a spiral and then turns into a circle, before recoiling itself ever more tightly around the spectator who stands there in the middle listening to the singing and who, as the round dance draws ever closer to him,
then kisses the various children who have offered this kindly gift to the passing stranger.

I was no stranger, but I was moved to tears upon hearing these tiny voices sing with the same intonations, the same trills, the same accentuations that I remembered from my earliest youth, — and that had been passed down unchanged from mother to daughter over the ages ...

The music of this region has not been spoiled by the influx of the Parisian opera or by the popular songs sung in parlors or by the melodies cranked out by barrel organs. In Senlis, they are still playing the music introduced here by the Medecis in the sixteenth century. The age of Louis XIV has also left its traces. Some of the country girls can still remember some of the old
complaints,
— which are delightfully mawkish. One occasionally comes across remnants of what seem to be sixteenth-century operas, — or seventeenth-century oratorios.

Long ago, I went to a performance given by a boarding school for young ladies at Senlis.

They were performing a mystery play, — as in days of yore. — The play showed the life of Christ in all its details; the scene that sticks in my mind involved Christ's descent into the underworld.

An extremely beautiful fair-haired girl appeared wearing a white gown, a crown of pearls, a halo, a golden sword; she was standing on a hemisphere that represented an extinguished star.

She was singing:

And she spoke of the glory of the Messiah who was about to grace these dark nether regions. — She added:

These memories date back to the days of the monarchy. The fair-haired young lady, a descendent of one of the greatest families of the region, was called Delphine. — I shall never forget her name.

... The count de Longueval said to his servants: « Frisk this traitor; he has letters from my daughter on him. » Then turning to him, he said: « Tell me, you scoundrel, where were you coming from when you left the great hall so early in the morning? »

« I was coming from M. de la Porte's room, and I have no idea what letters you are talking about. »

Luckily for him, La Corbinière had previously burned all the letters he had received, so nothing was found on him. Still holding his pistol in his hand, the count de Longueval nonetheless said to his son: « Cut off his moustache and his hair! »

The count imagined that after this procedure, La Corbinière would no longer be attractive to his daughter.

This is how she describes the episode:

« Seeing himself in this sorry condition and thinking
that I would no longer love him, the poor boy wanted to die. But when I saw the state he was in on account of his love for me, my feelings for him knew no bounds; indeed, I swore that if my father ever treated him this poorly again, I should surely kill myself in front of his eyes. Being an intelligent man, he proceeded with caution and, without making any more scenes, dispatched him to the Beauvoisis on a good horse, his mission being to inform the local gendarmes to prepare for transfer to the garrison at Orbaix. »