The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Read Free Page A

awnings. In the central aisle, he spotted a stand whose sober tones were out of place in the gaily-colored swirl of silks. There, customers and sellers alike argued in low voices, heedless of the cries and laughter all around. A discreet sign announced in Gothic lettering: “Johann Fust and Pierre Schoeffer, printers and booksellers.” Rolls of parchment and leather-bound volumes were heaped up willy-nilly on shelves of rough and hastily varnished wood.
    At the back, behind the counter, a slender fellow wearing gentlemen’s attire, although moth-eaten and patched, was putting down a box filled with books at the feet of an old man with a well-groomed beard. The old man immediately plunged his thin hands into the box, skillfully searching and sorting. Then, with a disillusioned expression, he stood up again and stated his price. The squire refused, visibly offended. The old man would not budge. To cut short the performance, he untied a velvet purse, knowing that a feudal lord in debt would not long resist the sight of a handful of silver coins. Crestfallen, the noble pocketed the sum without deigning to count it and quickly turned on his heels, trying to regain the haughty air proper to his station.
    Colin went closer. It was the first time he had approached the man he had been watching for months. With a hesitant hand, he held out his list. The old merchant first glanced negligently at it. Then, genuinely taken aback, he looked at Colin for some time, incredulous.
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    With the few crowns allocated by Guillaume Chartier, François bought new clothes: two pairs of britches, two shirts, and a pelisse lined with otter skin, all in a dull gray that would not show the dirt for a long time. Splendid hats hung from the ceiling, but much as the shopkeeper insisted, François would not abandon his old headgear. It was a piece of crumpled felt, of an undefined color that might once have been an elegant green, the brim of which was turned up in three sections. This curious tricorn had escaped many trials and tribulations. Each of its folds, like a familiar wrinkle, evoked a memory. François refused to part with it. It was the only possession that still tied him to his past. He clung to it like a rope.
    Before going back, he paid for a neck-length haircut, a close shave, and a clumsy plastering of his dental cavities. The barber cursed the great fair, which was stealing his customers with all its sales patter. There were even quack doctors there who claimed to be able to patch up teeth better than he could!
    Back at the tavern, François climbed the stairs to the attic, a small, meagerly furnished, musty-smelling room. Colin was waiting for him, sitting on a stool. François tapped him on the shoulder, then went and took his pouch from under the bed. The books were all there. Now all they could do was wait.
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    Toward noon, François heard heavy steps growing louder as they approached, interspersed now and again by imperious knocks with a cane. Colin stood up even before the pommel struck the mildewed wood of the door. Doing his best to appear polite, he gave a kind of bow and motioned the visitor to the only chair that had a back.
    â€œFust. Johann Fust. Silversmith and printer in Mayence.”
    François, sitting cross-legged on a straw mattress, was less welcoming. He studied the newcomer with a suspicious air. The old man’s venerable countenance, his haughty German demeanor, his impeccably correct clothes did nothing to set his mind at rest. Fust stared back at him, momentarily thrown by his host’s less than winning appearance. He even found him insolent and crafty. The fellow was clearly suffering from a terrible hangover. In any case, neither the imposing brute who was standing with his back to the door nor this none too clean vagabond intimidated the old printer. This wasn’t the first time he had dealt with receivers of stolen goods. They were of all kinds: defrocked priests, sons of