Paris, December 8, 1859.
My unpacked trunks still encumbered the hall. I was seated at a tabledcovered with all those good things which the land of France produces forthe delectation of gourmets. I was eating a pate le Chartres, whichis alone sufficient to make one love one's country. Therese, standingbefore me with her hands joined over her white apron, was looking atme with benignity, with anxiety, and with pity. Hamilcar was rubbinghimself against my legs, wild with delight.
These words of an old poet came back to my memory:
"Happy is he who, like Ulysses, hath made a goodly journey."
..."Well," I thought to myself, "I travelled to no purpose; I have comeback with empty hands; but, like Ulysses, I made a goodly journey."
And having taken my last sip of coffee, I asked Therese for my hat andcane, which she gave me not without dire suspicions; she feared I mightbe going upon another journey. But I reassured her by telling her tohave dinner ready at six o'clock.
It had always been a keen pleasure for me to breathe the air inthose Parisian streets whose every paving-slab and every stone I lovedevotedly. But I had an end in view, and I took my way straight to theRue Lafitte. I was not long in find the establishment of Signor RafaelPolizzi. It was distinguishable by a great display of old paintingswhich, although all bearing the signature of some illustrious artist,had a certain family air of resemblance that might have suggested sometouching idea about the fraternity of genius, had it not still moreforcibly suggested the professional tricks of Polizzi senior. Enrichedby these doubtful works of art, the shop was further rendered attractiveby various petty curiosities: poniards, drinking-vessels, goblets,figulines, brass guadrons, and Hispano-Arabian wares of metallic lustre.
Upon a Portuguese arm-chair, decorated with an escutcheon, lay a copy ofthe "Heures" of Simon Vostre, open at the page which has an astrologicalfigure on it; and an old Vitruvius, placed upon a quaint chest,displayed its masterly engravings of caryatides and telamones. Thisapparent disorder which only masked cunning arrangement, this factitioushazard which had placed the best objects in the most favourable light,would have increased my distrust of the place, but that the distrustwhich the mere name of Polizzi had already inspired could not have beenincreased by any circumstances--being already infinite.
Signor Rafael, who sat there as the presiding genius of all these vagueand incongruous shapes, impressed me as a phlegmatic young man, witha sort of English character, he betrayed no sign whatever of thosetranscendent faculties displayed by his father in the arts of mimicry anddeclamation.
I told him what I had come for; he opened a cabinet and drew from ita manuscript, which he placed on a table that I might examine it at myleisure.
Never in my life did I experience such an emotion--except, indeed,during some few brief months of my youth, months whose memories, thoughI should live a hundred years, would remain as fresh at my last hour asin the first day they came to me.
It was, indeed, the very manuscript described by the librarian of SirThomas Raleigh; it was, indeed, the manuscript of the Clerk Alexanderwhich I saw, which I touched! The work of Voragine himself had beenperceptibly abridged; but that made little difference to me. All theinestimable additions of the monk of Saint-Germain-des-Pres were there.That was the main point! I tried to read the Legend of Saint Droctoveus;but I could not--all the lines of the page quivered before my eyes, andthere was a sound in my ears like the noise of a windmill in the countryat night. Nevertheless, I was able to see that the manuscript offeredevery evidence of indubitable authenticity. The two drawings of thePurification of the Virgin and the Coronation of Proserpine were meagrein design and vulgar in violence of colouring. Considerably damagedin 1824, as attested by the catalogue of Sir Thomas, they had obtainedduring the interval a new aspect of freshness. But this miracle didnot surprise me at all. And, besides, what did I care about the twominiatures? The legends and the poem of Alexander--those alone formedthe treasure I desired. My eyes devoured as much of it as they had thepower to absorb.
I affected indifference while asking Signor Polizzi the price of themanuscript; and, while awaiting his reply, I offered up a secretprayer that the price might not exceed the amount of ready money at mydisposal--already much diminished by the cost of my expensive voyage.Signor Polizzi, however, informed me that he was not at liberty todispose of the article, inasmuch as it did not belong to him, and wasto be sold at auction shortly, at the Hotel des Ventes, with a number ofother MSS. and several incunabula.
This was a severe blow to me. It tried to preserve my calmness,notwithstanding, and replied somewhat to this effect:
"You surprise me, Monsieur! Your father, whom I talked with recently atGirgenti, told me positively that the manuscript was yours. You cannotnow attempt to make me discredit your father's word."
"I DID own the manuscript, indeed," answered Signor Rafael with absolutefrankness; "but I do not own it any longer. I sold that manuscript--theremarkable interest of which you have not failed to perceive--to anamateur whom I am forbidden to name, and who, for reasons which I am notat liberty to mention, finds himself obliged to sell his collection. Iam honoured with the confidence of my customer, and was commissioned byhim to draw up the catalogue and manage the sale, which takes placethe 24th of December. Now, if you will be kind enough to give me youraddress, I shall have the pleasure of sending you the catalogue, whichis already in the press; you fill find the 'Legende Doree' described init as 'No. 42.'"
I gave my address, and left the shop.
The polite gravity of the son impressed me quite as disagreeably as theimpudent buffoonery of the father. I hated, from the bottom of my heart,the tricks of the vile hagglers! It was perfectly evident that thetwo rascals had a secret understanding, and had only devised thisauction-sale, with the aid of a professional appraiser, to force thebidding on the manuscript I wanted so much up to an outrageous figure.I was completely at their mercy. There is one evil in all passionatedesires, even the noblest--namely, that they leave us subject to thewill of others, and in so far dependent. This reflection made me suffercruelly; but it did not conquer my longing to won the work of ClerkAlexander. While I was thus meditating, I heard a coachman swear. And Idiscovered it was I whom he was swearing at only when I felt the pole ofa carriage poke me in the ribs. I started aside, barely in time to savemyself from being run over; and whom did I perceive through the windowsof the coupe? Madame Trepof, being taken by two beautiful horses, anda coachman all wrapped up in furs like a Russian Boyard, into the verystreet I had just left. She did not notice me; she was laughing toherself with that artless grace of expression which still preserved forher, at thirty years, all the charm of her early youth.
"Well, well!" I said to myself, "she is laughing! I suppose she musthave just found another match-box."
And I made my way back to the Ponts, feeling very miserable.
Nature, eternally indifferent, neither hastened nor hurried thetwenty-fourth day of December. I went to the Hotel Bullion, and tookmy place in Salle No. 4, immediately below the high desk at which theauctioneer Boulouze and the expert Polizzi were to sit. I saw the hallgradually fill with familiar faces. I shook hands with several oldbooksellers of the quays; but that prudence which any large interestinspires in even the most self-assured caused me to keep silence inregard to the reason of my unaccustomed presence in the halls of theHotel Bullion. On the other hand, I questioned those gentlemen at theauction sale; and I had the satisfaction of finding them all interestedabout matters in no wise related to my affair.
Little by little the hall became thronged with interested or merelycurious spectators; and, after half an hour's delay, the auctioneer withhis ivory hammer, the clerk with his bundle of memorandum-papers, andthe crier, carrying his collection-box fixed to the end of a pole, alltook their places on the platform in the most solemn business manner.The attendants ranged themselves at the foot of the desk. The presidingofficer having declared the sale open, a partial hush followed.
A commonplace serie
s of Preces dia, with miniatures, were first sold offat mediocre prices. Needless to say, the illuminations of these bookswere in perfect condition!
The lowness of the bids gave courage to the gathering of second-handbooksellers present, who began to mingle with us, and become morefamiliar. The dealers in old brass and bric-a-brac pressed forward intheir tun, waiting for the doors of an adjoining room to be opened; andthe voice of the auctioneer was drowned by the jests of the Auvergnats.
A magnificent codex of the "Guerre des Juifs" revived attention. It waslong disputed for. "Five thousand francs! five thousand!" called thecrier, while the bric-a-brac dealers remained silent with admiration.Then seven or eight antiphonaries brought us back again to low prices.A fat old woman, in a loose gown, bareheaded--a dealer in second-handgoods--encouraged by the size of the books and the low prices bidden,had one of the antiphonaries knocked down to her for thirty francs.
At last the expert Polizzi announced No. 42: "The 'Golden Legend';French MS.; unpublished; two superb miniatures, with a starting bid ofthree thousand francs."
"Three thousand! three thousand bid!" yelled the crier.
"Three thousand!" dryly repeated the auctioneer.
There was a buzzing in my head, and, as through a cloud, I saw a hostof curious faces all turning towards the manuscript, which a boy wascarrying open through the audience.
"Three thousand and fifty!" I said.
I was frightened by the sound of my own voice, and further confused byseeing, or thinking that I saw, all eyes turned on me.
"Three thousand and fifty on the right!" called the crier, taking up mybid.
"Three thousand one hundred!" responded Signor Polizzi.
Then began a heroic duel between the expert and myself.
"Three thousand five hundred!"
"Six hundred!"
"Seven hundred!"
"Four thousand!"
"Four thousand five hundred."
Then by a sudden bold stroke, Signor Polizzi raised the bid at once tosix thousand.
Six thousand francs was all the money I could dispose of. It representedthe possible. I risked the impossible.
"Six thousand one hundred!"
Alas! even the impossible did not suffice.
"Six thousand five hundred!" replied Signor Polizzi, with calm.
I bowed my head and sat there stupefied, unable to answer either yes orno to the crier, who called to me:
"Six thousand five hundred, by me--not by you on the right there!--it ismy bid--no mistake! Six thousand five hundred!"
"Perfectly understood!" declared the auctioneer. "Six thousand fivehundred. Perfectly clear; perfectly plain.... Any more bids? The lastbid is six thousand five hundred francs."
A solemn silence prevailed. Suddenly I felt as if my head had burstopen. It was the hammer of the officiant, who, with a loud blow on theplatform, adjudged No. 42 irrevocably to Signor Polizzi. Forthwith thepen of the clerk, coursing over the papier-timbre, registered that greatfact in a single line.
I was absolutely prostrated, and I felt the utmost need of rest andquiet. Nevertheless, I did not leave my seat. My powers of reflectionslowly returned. Hope is tenacious. I had one more hope. It occurred tome that the new owner of the "Legende Doree" might be some intelligentand liberal bibliophile who would allow me to examine the MS., andperhaps even to publish the more important parts. And, with this idea,as soon as the sale was over I approached the expert as he was leavingthe platform.
"Monsieur," I asked him, "did you buy in No. 42 on your own account, oron commission?"
"On commission. I was instructed not to let it go at any price."
"Can you tell me the name of the purchaser?"
"Monsieur, I regret that I cannot serve you in that respect. I have beenstrictly forbidden to mention the name."
I went home in despair.