The Salt Smugglers by Gérard de Nerval

allegory of the workings of political parties. How often has the gullible public been swindled by dead, — or stuffed, — birds!
    I would not want to play a similar role vis-à-vis my readers. I am not even trying to here imitate those story-tellers of Constantinople or Cairo who, falling back on a time-honored stratagem, interrupt their tale just as the suspense is reaching its height so that the crowd will return to the same café the following day. — The history of the abbé de Bucquoy indeed exists; I shall locate it in due course.
    Still, I continue to be amazed that in a city such as Paris, a center of learning whose public libraries house some two million volumes, it has proved impossible to lay my hands on a French book I happened to read in Frankfurt, — but alas did not purchase.
    Books tend to be vanishing into thin air these days, given the liberal lending policies of libraries, — and also given the gradual extinction of the tribe of art and book collectors ever since the Revolution. Whether by hook or by crook, all the bibliographical rarities are ending up in Holland, Germany, or Russia. — It’s too late in the season to set off on a long journey, so I shall simply limit my research to the forty-kilometer radius around Paris.
    I have just discovered that it took the Senlis post office seventeen days to deliver you the letter that could have easily made the journey to Paris in three hours. I don’t think that this delay can in any way be imputed to the fact that the locals may have viewed me with suspicion (after all, I grew up in the place), but here is a curious detail:
    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):
    They asked the soldier
«Where is your furlough?
He replied, My furlough?
On the ground below
My boots ... »
    A nicely turned reply. But the refrain is frightening:
    Spiritus sanctus,
Quoniam bonus
    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.
    Â« In that case, gentlemen, said the policeman, you are under arrest. »
    My Breton friend was seething, which was not