The Salt Smugglers (8 page)

« I am not surprised that the simples should have lost their medicinal powers in the absence of the sun's warming rays, for I too have been unlucky enough to leave this abode without having been graced by the light of your dawn, a light which has always illuminated me and the absence of which invariably plunges me into the deepest of glooms from which my need to escape, as well as my need to see you again, has impelled me to return to your side so that I might humbly bask in the radiance of all your brilliant attributes and accomplishments, the lure of which has entirely stolen both my soul and my heart; and yet I am honored to be the victim of such larceny, for it has raised me to heights at once sacred and terrifying and has elicited from me a zeal and a fidelity in your regard equaled only by your perfection. »

This letter proved fatal to its young author. As he was trying to slip the missive to Angélique, he was caught red-handed by her father, — and died four days later, the victim of a mysterious murder.

Angélique was devastated by this death, — and discovered the meaning of Love. For two years she went on weeping. At the end of this period of mourning, claiming that she saw no other remedy for her sorrow than death or another romance, she begged her father to introduce her to society. Among all of the fine gentleman she was certain to meet, she said to herself, there would no doubt be someone who would be able to drive this dead man from her thoughts.

Judging from the evidence, the count d'Haraucourt did not respond to the request of his daughter, for among the various men who fell in love with her we only come across members of her father's household staff. Two of these men, M. de Saint-Georges, the count's personal assistant, and Fargue, the count's valet de chambre, developed a shared passion for the young girl which created a rivalry whose resolution proved to be tragic. Fargue, jealous of his rival's superior standing, had made a number of disparaging remarks. Having gotten wind of these, M. de Saint-Georges summons Fargue to his chambers, reprimands him for his insolence, and ends up striking him so many times with the flat of his sword that his weapon is entirely bent out of shape. In a blind rage, Fargue rushes about the house in search of a sword. He runs into the baron d'Haraucourt, Angélique's brother, and rips his sword away from him which he then proceeds to plunge into the throat of his rival, wounding him mortally. The doctor arrives only in time to advise Saint-Georges: « Ask God for mercy, for you are dead. » Fargue in the meantime has fled.

Such were the tragic preambles to the great passion that was to plunge poor Angélique into a series of misfortunes.

Compiègne. — All Saints' Day.

I have interrupted my reading of the life of that lovely adventuress, Angélique de Longueval, — while realizing that a number of other documents pertinent to her story were housed in the libraries of Compiègne. — For Compiègne is the literary center of the province where this venerable family lived, — a family whose past history it would be most interesting to recreate in the manner of Walter Scott, — if the thing were at all possible!

People tend to know very little about traditional provincial France, — particularly that area which lies just beyond the outskirts of Paris. Divided by the slow peaceful course of the Oise and Aisne, the Île-de-France, the Valois, and Picardy all flow together into a region where you can still imagine the most beautiful pastoral adventures in the world.

Even the peasants in this region speak the purest French, — except that in their local pronunciation the ends of words trail off into the sky like the songs of nightingales ... In the mouths of children, this French virtually sounds like birds warbling. The local turns of phrase also have something Italianate to them, — no doubt due to the protracted residence of the Medici and their Florentine retinue in this region of former royal and princely estates.

I arrived in Compiègne last night, pursuing the various incarnations of
the Bucquoys
with that dull obstinacy that comes so naturally to me. At any rate, the National Archives, where I had only been able to take a few notes so far, would be closed today for All Saints' Day.

At the Hôtel de la Cloche, celebrated by Alexandre Dumas, there was quite a commotion this morning. The dogs were barking and the hunters were preparing their weapons; I heard a whip say to his master: « Monsieur le marquis, here is your gun. »

So marquis still exist!

But my mind was on an altogether different kind of hunt ... I inquired at what hour the local library opened.

« It's All Saints' Day, I was informed, so the library will obviously not open today.

— What are its regular hours?

— Evenings, from seven to eleven. »

I wouldn't want to make myself out to be unluckier than I in fact was. I had a letter recommending me to one of the librarians, a bibliophile of great renown. Not only was he willing to show me the books in the town library, but he also let me see his own private collection, — whose valuable autographs included a series of
unpublished
letters by Voltaire and a collection of songs set to music by Rousseau under the title
New Tunes for Old Songs
. The sight of these songs written out in Rousseau's beautifully clear hand moved me no end. — The first of these songs, composed in the style of Marot, went as follows:

These Rousseau manuscripts prompted me to return to Paris via Ermenonville, — which is the shortest
route as the crow flies but which takes the lengthiest amount of time to cover on ground, — even though the railroad makes an enormous loop before reaching Compiègne.

One cannot get to Ermenonville, — or for that matter, leave Ermenonville, — without traveling some five miles on foot. — There is no direct coach. But tomorrow being All Souls' Day, this is a pilgrimage I'll gladly and respectfully undertake, — thinking of lovely Angélique de Longueval all the while.

I am sending you whatever it was I managed to dig up about her at the National Archives and at Compiègne. I have tossed the thing together on the basis of the primary documents I consulted and above all on the basis of that yellowed manuscript, composed entirely in her hand, which is perhaps even more daring (written as it is by a young woman of noble birth) than Rousseau's own
Confessions
. This will at least give your readers something to do while they await the adventures of her nephew the abbé, to whom she seems to have communicated something of her own spirit of independence and adventure.

HISTORY OF THE GREAT AUNT OF THE ABBÉ DE BUCQUOY

Here then are the first lines of the manuscript:

« I continued to be hounded by ill fortune, and this time it was in the person of a man I had known for over seven years and had frequented for two full years without really caring for him. One night at Saint-Rimault, this fellow entered my room on the pretext of paying court to my mother's chambermaid Beauregard. He approached my bed and said to me: “I beg your pardon.” Then, drawing even closer, he said these words to me: “Oh, it's been so long that I have loved you.” To which I replied: “I do not love you in the least, nor do I hate you in the least. But you must leave at once, lest my father find out that you have been here at this hour.”

« The following morning, I made so bold as to try to get a glimpse of the man who had declared his love to me the night before. As I looked him over, the only thing I found disagreeable about him was his low station, which was causing him to act in a very reserved manner, even though he did not take his eyes off me. Over the following days, he made considerable efforts to make his outward appearance as pleasing as possible to my sight. And indeed, I found him worthy of love, for he conducted himself in a fashion that made one forget his origins, and he was most brave and noble of heart. »

This young man, as we learn from the narrative of a Celestine monk who was a cousin of Angélique's, was called La Corbinière and he was none other than the son of a pork butcher from Clermont-sur-Oise who worked for the count d'Haraucourt. It is true that the count, being a marshal of the royal armies, ran his household along military lines and his domestic staff, sporting moustaches and spurs, therefore wore uniforms rather than livery. This may partially explain Angélique's illusion.

She was very sorry to see La Corbinière leave; he was off to Charleville with her father to visit the duke de Longueville who was suffering from dysentery. — What
a terrible illness, the young girl reflected naïvely, for it was preventing her from seeing the man « whose affection did not displease her. » She subsequently met up with him again at Verneuil. Their reunion took place in church. The young man had acquired considerable polish at the court of the duke de Longueville. He was dressed in pearl-gray Spanish cloth and was wearing a lace collar and a gray hat decorated with pearl-gray and yellow plumes. He drew close to her without anybody noticing and said: « Madame, please accept these scented bracelets which I have brought back from Charleville where I was
most despondent
. »

Senlis. — The evening of All Saints' Day
²
. — (Continued.)

La Corbinière resumed his duties at the castle. He continued to pretend he was infatuated with Beauregard the chambermaid and he convinced her he was visiting her mistress only for her sake. « This simple girl, — Angélique said, — actually took him at his word ... Every evening the three of us would spend two or three jolly hours in the white room of the dungeon of Verneuil. »

The suspicions of a valet by the name of Dourdillie who had been spying on them brought these trysts to an end. The lovers were reduced to corresponding by letters. One night however, Angélique's father having gone off to Rouen to join up with the duke de Longueville, La Corbinière managed to climb up a crack in the wall and, upon approaching Angélique's window, threw a pebble at the pane.

The young lady recognized him and, still engaging in her usual deception, said to her chambermaid Beauregard : « I think your lover is out of his mind. He's in the garden; quick, go down and open up the terrace door. Meanwhile I'll get dressed and light a candle. »

They saw to it that the young man got some supper « which consisted primarily of liquid viands. The three of us, — the young lady adds, — spent the entire night laughing. »

But, alas, as far as poor gullible Beauregard was concerned, she remained utterly unaware that La Corbinière and the young lady were above all secretly
laughing at
her for believing he indeed loved her.

When morning came, they hid the young man in the so-called
King's chambers
where no one ever set foot; — and from which they would again fetch him once night had fallen. « Over the course of these three days, Angélique notes, his meals consisted of fresh chicken which I brought to him hidden between my chemise and my petticoats. »

In the end La Corbinière was forced to rejoin the count in Paris. One year went by, a melancholy year for Angélique, — whose only distraction was provided by the letters she would write her lover. « I had no other diversions, she observes, for in the absence of his conversation, neither fine jewelry nor beautiful carpets nor elegant clothing could please me ... Only those who have truly loved could fully imagine the bliss of our reunion at Saint-Rimault. I found him even more attractive in the scarlet outfit he was wearing ... »

The nightly trysts resumed. Doudillie the valet had left the castle and his room was now occupied by a falconer by the name of Lavigne who pretended to notice nothing.

Their relations (which remained chaste) continued on in this manner, interrupted only by the La Corbinière's periodic absences whenever he was called away to accompany the count on his tours of military duty. « It would be impossible, writes Angélique, to describe our bliss during those three years
in France.
»
³

One day, La Corbinière became more brazen. Perhaps he had been somewhat spoiled by the female companionship available to him in Paris. — He came to Angélique's room very late one night. Her chambermaid was asleep on the floor, she was in her bed. Following their standard charade, he started off by kissing the maid. Then he said: « Let me give your mistress a scare. »

« It was at this point, Angélique adds, that he slipped into my bed while I was asleep, wearing only his under-things. More frightened than delighted, I told him that if he truly loved me he would immediately leave, for it was impossible to take a single step or say a single word in my room without my father hearing. I had great difficulty convincing him to leave. »

Somewhat perplexed, the lover returned to Paris. But by the next time they saw each other, their mutual affection had clearly increased, — as had the suspicions of her parents. — One day when the young lady was sleeping in the so-called King's chamber, La Corbinière hid himself under a large Turkish rug that covered a table and « went to place himself by her side». Fifty times she begged him to leave, fearing that her father might burst in on them. But even asleep in each other's arms, their caresses remained pure ...