Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

Anatole France

Description

In 1881, French novelist Anatole France burst onto the European literary landscape with his first novel, The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Protagonist Bonnard is a refined academic who has long lived at a remove from the tumult and tribulation of the real world. But when a chance encounter plunges him into the midst of a dramatic domestic dispute, he springs into action.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776670574
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD
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ANATOLE FRANCE
 
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The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard First published in 1881 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-057-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-058-1 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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PART I - THE LOG December 24, 1849 August 30, 1850 May 7, 1851 Same Day July 8, 1852 August 20, 1859 October 10, 1859 October 25, 1859 Naples, November 10, 1859 Monte-Allegro, November 30, 1859 Girgenti. Same Day Girgenti, November 30, 1859 Paris, December 8, 1859 December 30, 1859 PART II - THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE Chapter I - The Fairy Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV - The Little Saint-George April 16 April 17 From May 2 to May 5 June 3 June 4 June 6 July 6 August 12 September-December December 15 December 20 February 186- April-June August, September October 3 December 28 December 29 January 15, 186- May September 20 The Last Page - August 21, 1869 Endnotes
PART I - THE LOG
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December 24, 1849
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I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear withwhich the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision. Abright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shapedlike fern-leaves, were sprouting over the windowpanes and concealed fromme the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Valois.
I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and tookup so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me.Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion,with his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose and fell withhis regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of hisagate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closedagain almost at once, thinking to himself, "It is nothing; it is only myfriend."
"Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legs—"Hamilcar, somnolentPrince of the City of Books—thou guardian nocturnal! Like that DivineCat who combated the impious in Heliopolis—in the night of the greatcombat—thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the oldsavant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigablezeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, thatshelters thy military virtues; for verily in thy person are united theformidable aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous grace of awoman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, whileawaiting the moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dancebefore the Acta Sanctorum of the learned Bolandists!"
The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied itwith a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as myvoice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and bywrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my partso to declaim.
"This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, "talks to no purpose atall while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of goodsense, full of significance—containing either the announcement of ameal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But this oldman puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing."
So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I openeda book, which I began to read with interest; for it was a catalogue ofmanuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinating, moredelightful than that of a catalogue. The one which I was reading—editedin 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas Raleigh—sins, itis true, by excess of brevity, and does not offer that character ofexactitude which the archivists of my own generation were the first tointroduce into works upon diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a gooddeal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps why I findmyself aware, while reading it, of a state of mind which in nature moreimaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myselfto drift away this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when myhousekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccozdesired to speak with me.
In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her. He was alittle man—a poor little man of puny appearance, wearing a thin jacket.He approached me with a number of little bows and smiles. But he wasvery pale, and, although still young and alert, he looked ill. I thoughtas I looked at him, of a wounded squirrel. He carried under his arm agreen toilette, which he put upon a chair; then unfastening the fourcorners of the toilette, he uncovered a heap of little yellow books.
"Monsieur," he then said to me, "I have not the honour to be known toyou. I am a book-agent, Monsieur. I represent the leading houses ofthe capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honour me with yourconfidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few novelties."
Kind gods! just gods! such novelties as the homunculus Coccoz showed me!The first volume that he put in my hand was "L'Histoire de la Tourde Nesle," with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the CaptainBuridan.
"It is a historical book," he said to me, with a smile—"a book of realhistory."
"In that case," I replied, "it must be very tiresome; for all thehistorical books which contain no lies are extremely tedious. I writesome authentic ones myself; and if you were unlucky enough to carry acopy of any of them from door to door you would run the risk of keepingit all your life in that green baize of yours, without ever finding evena cook foolish enough to buy it from you."
"Certainly Monsieur," the little man answered, out of pure good-nature.
And, all smiling again, he offered me the "Amours d'Heloise etd'Abeilard"; but I made him understand that, at my age, I had no use forlove-stories.
Still smiling, he proposed me the "Regle des Jeux de laSociete"—piquet, bezique, ecarte, whist, dice, draughts, and chess.
"Alas!" I said to him, "if you want to make me remember the rules ofbezique, give me back my old friend Bignan, with whom I used to playcards every evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted himto the cemetery; or else bring down to the frivolous level of humanamusements the grave intelligence of Hamilcar, whom you see on thatcushion, for he is the sole companion of my evenings."
The little man's smile became vague and uneasy.
"Here," he said, "is a new collection of society amusements—jokes andpuns—with a receipt for changing a red rose to a white rose."
I told him that I had fallen out with the roses for a long time, andthat, as to jokes, I was satisfied with those which I unconsciouslypermitted myself to make in the course of my scientific labours.
The homunculus offered me his last book, with his last smile. He said tome:
"Here is the Clef des Songes—the 'Key of Dreams'—with the explanationof any dreams that anybody can have; dreams of gold, dreams of robbers,dreams of death, dreams of falling from the top of a tower.... It isexhaustive."
I had taken hold of the tongs, and, brandishing them energetically, Ireplied to my commercial visitor:
"Yes, my friend; but those dreams and a thousand others, joyous ortragic, are all summed up in one—the Dream of Life; is your littleyellow book able to give me the key to that?"
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the homunculus; "the book is complete, and itis not dear—one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur."
I called my housekeeper—for there is no bell in my room—and said toher:
"Therese, Monsieur Coccoz—whom I am going to ask you to show out—has abook here which might interest you: the 'Key of Dreams.' I shall be veryglad to buy it for you."
My housekeeper responded:
"Monsieur, when one has not even time to dream awake, one has still lesstime to dream asleep. Thank God, my days are just enough for my work andmy work for my days, and I am able to say every night, 'Lord, bless Thouthe rest which I am going to take.' I never dream, either on my feet orin bed; and I never mistake my eider-down coverlet for a devil, as mycousin did; and, if you will allow me to give my opinion about it,I think you have books enough here now. Monsieur has thousands andthousands of books, which simply turn his head; and as for me, I havejust tow, which are quite enough for all my wants and purposes—myCatholic prayer-book and my Cuisiniere Bourgeoise."
And with those words my housekeeper helped the little man to fasten uphis stock again within the green toilette.
The homunculus Coccoz had ceased to smile. His relaxed features tooksuch an expression of suffering that I felt sorry to have made fun ofso unhappy a man. I called him back, and told him that I had caught aglimpse of a copy of the "Histoire d'Estelle et de Nemorin," whichhe had among his books; that I was very fond of shepherds andshepherdesses, and that I would be quite willing to purchase, at areasonable price, the story of these two perfect lovers.
"I will sell you that book for one franc twenty-five centimes,Monsieur," replied Coccoz, whose face at once beamed with joy. "It ishistorical; and you will be pleased with it. I know now just what suitsyou. I see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I will bring youthe Crimes des Papes. It is a good book. I will bring you the editiond'amateur, with coloured plates."
I begged him not to do anything of the sort, and sent him away happy.When the green toilette and the agent had disappeared in the shadow ofthe corridor I asked my housekeeper whence this little man had droppe