The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard | Page 3

that
you do not remove, alter or modify the etext or this "small print!"
statement. You may however, if you wish, distribute this etext in
machine readable binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,

including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- cessing or
hypertext software, but only so long as *EITHER*:
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and does *not*
contain characters other than those intended by the author of the work,
although tilde (), asterisk (*) and underline () characters may be used to
convey punctuation intended by the author, and additional characters
may be used to indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at no expense into
plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays
the etext (as is the case, for instance, with most word processors); OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at no additional
cost, fee or expense, a copy of the etext in its original plain ASCII form
(or in EBCDIC or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this "Small
Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the net profits
you derive calculated using the method you already use to calculate
your applicable taxes. If you don't derive profits, no royalty is due.
Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg
Association/Carnegie-Mellon University" within the 60 days following
each date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual
(or equivalent periodic) tax return.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU
DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, scanning
machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty free copyright
licenses, and every other sort of contribution you can think of. Money
should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association / Carnegie-Mellon
University".
*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN

ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

This Etext prepared by Brett Fishburne ([email protected])

The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard
by Anatole France


Part I--The Log

December 24, 1849.
I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear
with which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my
vision. A bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study.
Ice-crystals, shaped like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the
windowpanes and concealed from me 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 took
up 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 with his
regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of his
agate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closed
again almost at once, thinking to himself, "It is nothing; it is only my
friend."
"Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legs--"Hamilcar, somnolent
Prince of the City of Books--thou guardian nocturnal! Like that Divine

Cat who combated the impious in Heliopolis--in the night of the great
combat--thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the old
savant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigable zeal.
Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, that shelters thy
military virtues; for verily in thy person are united the formidable
aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous grace of a woman of the
Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, while awaiting the
moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dance before the
Acta Sanctorum of the learned Bolandists!"
The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied it
with a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as my voice
waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and by
wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my part
so to declaim.
"This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, "talks to no purpose
at all while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of
good sense, full of significance--containing either the announcement of
a meal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But
this old man puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing."
So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I
opened a book, which I began to read with interest; for it was a
catalogue of manuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more
fascinating, more delightful than that of a catalogue. The one which I
was reading--edited in 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas
Raleigh--sins, it is true,