The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard | Page 4

by excess of brevity, and does not offer that
character of exactitude which the archivists of my own generation were
the first to introduce into works upon diplomatics and paleography. It
leaves a good deal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps why
I find myself aware, while reading it, of a state of mind which in nature
more imaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed
myself to drift away this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when
my housekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur
Coccoz desired to speak with me.
In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her. He was a little

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 was
very pale, and, although still young and alert, he looked ill. I thought as
I looked at him, of a wounded squirrel. He carried under his arm a
green toilette, which he put upon a chair; then unfastening the four
corners 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 to
you. I am a book-agent, Monsieur. I represent the leading houses of the
capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honour me with your
confidence, 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 Tour de Nesle," with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and
the Captain Buridan.
"It is a historical book," he said to me, with a smile--"a book of real
history."
"In that case," I replied, "it must be very tiresome; for all the historical
books which contain no lies are extremely tedious. I write some
authentic ones myself; and if you were unlucky enough to carry a copy
of any of them from door to door you would run the risk of keeping it
all your life in that green baize of yours, without ever finding even a
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 et
d'Abeilard"; but I made him understand that, at my age, I had no use for
love-stories.
Still smiling, he proposed me the "Regle des Jeux de la Societe"--
piquet, bezique, ecarte, whist, dice, draughts, and chess.
"Alas!" I said to him, "if you want to make me remember the rules of
bezique, give me back my old friend Bignan, with whom I used to play

cards every evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted him
to the cemetery; or else bring down to the frivolous level of human
amusements the grave intelligence of Hamilcar, whom you see on that
cushion, 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 and
puns--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, and that,
as to jokes, I was satisfied with those which I unconsciously permitted
myself to make in the course of my scientific labours.
The homunculus offered me his last book, with his last smile. He said
to me:
"Here is the Clef des Songes--the 'Key of Dreams'--with the
explanation of 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 is exhaustive."
I had taken hold of the tongs, and, brandishing them energetically, I
replied to my commercial visitor:
"Yes, my friend; but those dreams and a thousand others, joyous or
tragic, are all summed up in one--the Dream of Life; is your little
yellow book able to give me the key to that?"
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the homunculus; "the book is complete, and
it is not dear--one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur."
I called my housekeeper--for there is no bell in my room--and said to
her:
"Therese, Monsieur Coccoz--whom I am going to ask you to show
out--has a book here which might interest you: the 'Key of Dreams.' I
shall be very glad to buy it for you."

My housekeeper responded:
"Monsieur, when one has not even time to dream awake, one has still
less time to dream asleep. Thank God, my days are just enough for my
work and my work for my days, and I am able to say every night, 'Lord,
bless Thou the rest which I am going to take.'