The Salt Smugglers Read Free Page A

which merely indicated his Flemish origins. »
    One does not argue with a paleographer; one just lets him rattle on.
    All this not with standing, the various catalogues had yielded up absolutely nothing under the letter D.
    Â« What makes you so sure that his name is Du Bucquoy? I asked the assistant librarian who had been the last to arrive on the scene.
    â€” Because I located his name among the manuscripts catalogued in the police archives: 1709, that would be his period, wouldn’t it?
    â€” Absolutely; it’s the year that the count de Bucquoy made his third escape from prison.
    â€” Du Bucquoy! ... That’s the name he’s listed under in the catalogue of manuscripts. Just follow me upstairs, and you’ll be able to consult the material for yourself. »
    I soon saw myself in possession of large folio bound in red morocco and containing the files of various police reports of the year 1709. The second file in the volume bore the following names: « Le Pileur, François Bouchard, lady de Boulanvilliers, Jeanne Massé, — Count du Buquoy. »
    Now we’ve got the fox by the tail, — for indeed there’s something here about an escape from the Bastille, and here is what M. d’Argenson of the police writes in his report to the minister M. de Pontchartrain:
    Â« I have continued to search for the alleged count of Buquoy in all the locations you have been so kind as to indicate to me, but nothing has been learned of his whereabouts and I doubt he is in Paris. »
    The information contained in these few lines struck me as at once most reassuring and most depressing. — On the one hand, the count de Buquoy or de Bucquoy, about whom I previously possessed only vague or questionable evidence, takes on an incontrovertible historical existence thanks to this item. No court of law could now justifiably classify him as a hero of a serial novel.
    On the other hand, why does M. d’Argenson refer to him as the alleged count de Bucquoy?
    Are we dealing with a fake Bucquoy here, — who is trying to pass himself off for the real thing ... for reasons we have no way of fathoming today?
    Or are we dealing with the actual Bucquoy who may have hidden his real name behind a pseudonym?
    With only this piece of evidence to go on, the truth escapes me, — and I imagine the material existence of this individual could easily be challenged by any lawyer worth his salt!
    How to defend oneself against the prosecutor who would declare before the court that: « The count of Bucquoy is a fictional character, a figment of the novelistic imagination of his author! ... » and who would then go on to request a legal settlement involving, say, a million francs in fines! — with the sum going up every day a new installment was seized?
    Although he can hardly pretend to wear the noble mantle of the scholar, every writer occasionally finds himself having to resort the scientific method; I therefore proceeded to scrutinize in detail the yellowed writing on the Holland paper of the report signed by d’Argenson. At the same level as the line that read: « I have continued to search for the alleged count ... » there were two words penciled into the margin, written in a swift and decisive hand: « Carry on. » Carry on what? — Carry on the search for the abbé de Bucquoi, no doubt ...
    I was entirely of the same opinion.
    All the same, when it comes to analyzing handwriting, there can be no certainty without comparison. On another page of the same report there was the following note:
    Â« The lanterns have been hung in the passageways of
the Louvre in accordance with your instructions, and I shall see to it that they are lit every evening. »
    This is how the sentence ended in the handwriting of the secretary who had copied the report. Following the words « lit every evening », a less professional hand had added: « quite so. »
    And in the margin, evidently in