The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Read Free

all the while following the comings and goings of a servingwoman, dreaming of a companion for his night. A wrinkled breast hung over the woman’s filthy apron.
    â€œI’m well past thirty-two, my dear Colin. All that remains of my loves and my duels are the scars. Of the money I robbed, not even a crown is left . . . ”
    Colin knew his friend too well to fall for this declaration.
    â€œBut now I have this!”
    François held out the list of works chosen by Chartier to arouse the envy of Johann Fust and persuade him to put his presses at the service of the French court. These volumes came from the royal archives as well as the secret collections of the diocese of Paris. The descriptions of them were deliberately succinct, so that only the initiated could spot their inestimable value. Colin skimmed through the tedious inventory, seeing nothing in it to justify such excitement.
    â€œAnother swig?”
    François filled the glasses then lifted his high in triumph, like a chalice. Colin threw an embarrassed glance at the neighboring tables. It was easy to spot the foreigners who had come for the Fair, dressed in thickly stitched doublets or woolen cloaks, wearing hoods and hats with preposterous shapes. Whether they came from Flanders or Saragossa, whether they were highwaymen, clerics or merchants, each had a club or a knife, in full view, at their sides. Other weapons were barely concealed beneath their cloaks or inside the legs of their boots. Ill at ease, the locals shrank away, whispering in patois, looking at these strangers out of the corners of their eyes. Only the innkeeper was affable, jovially pocketing the coin of different realms. A maid swayed her hips between the tables, trying to tempt the customers. Colin drank without much conviction, again looking closely at the sheet of parchment. François hit the table with his fist and pointed to the crowded room.
    â€œIt’s their future you hold in your hands, brigand!”
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    The two men spent the night drinking. François tried to make Colin understand what was truly at stake in this mission, but in vain. Colin could not see how this list of books could change the fate of all these people, these peasants and shopkeepers and soldiers of fortune. Much as he examined the inventory and deciphered the titles, it was no good. What confused him all the more was that François kept telling him that it was not the texts that mattered. They had been chosen by Chartier, and by the king, to assuage their ambitions of the moment. No, it was the books themselves, as objects of paper or animal hide, that constituted an extraordinary arsenal. But for what war?
    The tavern gradually emptied. Colin meekly received his final instructions from François, then went out to face the rain. As he closed the door behind him, he glimpsed his crony busily making eyes at the servingwoman, who was laughing crazily.
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    The market square was waking up, warmly wrapped in the thick mist of morning. Sounds, sparse and timid at first, pierced the silence: little bells dancing on the necks of animals, gravel crunching beneath the wheels of the carts, baubles and canvases shaken by the wind. The men, still numb, did not speak, staring with heavy eyes at the few patches of color: red ribbon, green hat, purple cloth. Hawkers and merchants strode in dozens down the alleys leading to the fairground. Soon, they roused workers and mules, mercenaries and bodyguards. Soon, the whine of haggling and the clink of coins echoed on all sides. That morning, a new era began, an era in which everything would be negotiable.
    The wooden trestles creaked beneath the weight of the crates and jars. The air was heavy with the scent of spices and perfume and dye and the fumes of wine. Colin was assailed by touts pulling his arm, in no way abashed by his huge frame. He hurried on, cutting through the stream of onlookers, slipping between the carpets and fabrics hanging from the