The Salt Smugglers (21 page)

— But Ulysses finally found his way back to Ithaca.

— And I have found my way back to my abbé de Bucquoy.

— Explain.

— What else do you think I have been talking about for the past month? » By now my readers must be sick of hearing about the count of Bucquoy, member of the League and later generalissimo in the Austrian army, — or about M. de Longueval de Bucquoy and his daughter Angélique, — who eloped with La Corbinière from the very castle whose ruins I have just been inspecting . . .

Or about the abbé de Bucquoy himself, a biographical sketch of whom I have provided, — and whom M. d'Argenson refers to in his correspondence as the
alleged
abbé de Bucquoy.

— The same probably holds true of those salt smugglers, the
faux saulniers
. Nobody believes in them anymore. — These fake salt merchants could not be true salt merchants. The documents of the period spelled their name as follows:
fauxçonniers
. They were simply people engaged in the illegal sale of salt, not only in the Franche-Comté, Lorraine, Burgundy, but also in Champagne, Picardy, Brittany, — everywhere. Saint-Simon on several occasions recounts their exploits, and even mentions that certain regiments of the army would engage in
salt smuggling
when their paydays became too erratic, — this under the reign of Louis XIV or during the Regency. Mandrin, at a somewhat later date, was a captain of these salt smugglers. Could a simple highwayman have had the resources to occupy villages and to engage in pitched battles?... But given the way history was written back in those days, there were no doubt good reasons to hush up the existence of such widespread resistance to the
gabelles,
— one of the principle causes of popular discontent. The peasants have always considered the salt tax as something that cut into their subsistence, — and as one of the heaviest burdens farmers had to bear.

The book I have just bought at the auction of the Motteley library would be worth far more than sixty-nine francs and twenty centimes had its margins not been so cruelly trimmed back. Its binding, which is brand new, bears the following title in golden letters:
The History of the abbé count de Bucquoy, Esq.
, etc. If this duodecimo has any real value at all, it is probably because three brochures in verse and prose composed by the author have been bound into the book; but since these were originally printed on far larger sheets, their margins have been cut down to the very quick of the text, though without affecting its legibility.

The volume contains all the various items listed in Brunet, Quérard, and the Michaud Biography. Facing the title page, there is an engraving of the Bastille with the caption
Living Hell
, accompanied by the quotation:
Facilis descensus Averni
.

Luckily we have since had these lovely lines by Chénier:

The
grand siècle
was no more: — it had gone the way of all waning moons and suns. The period of Louis XIV's brilliant military victories was now on the decline. He was losing the territories he had formerly conquered in Flanders, Franche-Comté, on the banks of the Rhine, in Italy. Prince Eugène was scoring successes in Germany, Marlborough was prevailing in the North ... The French nation was reduced to taking its revenge with the words of a folk song.

France had exhausted itself in the service of the old king's dynastic ambitions and stubborn system of government. Our nation has always been eager to throw its support behind warrior kings, and Henry IV and Louis XIV of the house of Bourbon were only too willing to oblige, even though the latter had occasion to complain that it was only his « majesty » that had driven him to cross the Rhine. If necessary, these kings took refuge in their vices. Their amorous adventures contributed to the upkeep of castles and rustic retreats, and they were thereby able to maintain that ideal mixture of gallantry and valor which has always been one of the most chivalrous dreams of our nation.

There were certain provinces in the land, however, that did not share in this admiration and that made their protestations known in a variety of forms, either in the guise of religious nonconformity or, more explicitly, in the shape of peasant uprisings, rebellious leagues or outright
fronds
.

Louis XIV's revocation of the Edict of Nantes was the final blow delivered against these remaining pockets of resistance. Villars had successfully quashed the
uprising of the Cévennes; those Camisards who had survived the general massacre made their way to Germany in small groups, where they joined up with the millions of Protestant exiles who had been forced to emigrate with the wreckage of their fortunes, taking with them their skills in commerce and trade.

Louis XIV's troops burned the Palatinate, the French Protestants' place of refuge: « such are the pastimes of princes », as La Fontaine might have quipped. The sun of the
grand siècle
was still enjoying its own reflection in the ornamental pools of Versailles; but it was noticeably growing paler. Even Mme de Maintenon had ceased to battle against time: her major concern now was to instill religious fervor into the soul of her skeptical consort, whose only response was to present her with the sums he received every day from his Minister of Finances, Chamillart:

Three million in debts! . . . how on earth could Providence ever repay them?

Louis XIV was no ordinary man. It is very likely that he cared deeply for France and its military glory, but his character, combined with his blind nepotism, proved to be his undoing as he advanced in years and became subject to the machinations of his entourage.

Shortly after the battle of Hochstedt, which cost us a hundred leagues of land in Flanders, Archambault de Bucquoy was passing through Morchandgy, a small village in Burgundy, about two leagues away from Sens.

Where was he coming from?... Difficult to determine . . .

Where was he going?... We shall find out later ...

One wheel of his carriage was broken; the village wheelwright said it would take an hour to fix. The count said to his servant: « The only place I see around here is this inn . . . Let me know when the wheelwright has finished.

— It would be safer if the count just waited in his carriage.

— Don't worry, my man! ... I'll just pass the time in the inn; I'm sure there's no danger. »

Archambault de Bucquoy made his way into the kitchen and asked for some soup. — But first he wanted to take a sip of the stock.

The innkeeper bowed to his request. But having found it a bit too salty, Archambault observed: « I see that salt is rather cheap in these parts.

— Not all that cheap, said the innkeeper.

— I imagine that the
salt smugglers
make it readily available.

— These are not people I know, she said, besides, they wouldn't dare set foot here . . . His Majesty's troops would immediately intervene; at any rate, all their bands have been cut to ribbons by the authorities, except for some thirty carters who were marched off to prison in shackles.

— Ah, said Archambault de Bucquoy, so the poor devils ended up getting caught, did they? . . . If they had a man like myself as their leader, their business outlook might be far rosier. »

From the kitchen he made his way into the dining room, where he quaffed down a bottle of excellent burgundy, which wouldn't have aged well elsewhere at any rate.

Having taken his place at the table, Archambault de Bucquoy was served his soup, — which he continued to find too salty. The denizens of Burgundy, it might be remembered, loathe this particular adjective: ever since the fifteenth century, the vilest insult one could hurl at them was to call them salty Burgundians.

The stranger tried to explain himself.

— All I mean is that you don't seem to be skimping on salt in this establishment . . . Which goes to prove that it's not exactly a rare commodity in these parts.

— Right you are, chimed in a man of colossal stature who was drinking with friends at a nearby table and who got up and tapped him on the shoulder. But it takes men with guts to make sure that salt comes cheap around here!

— What's your name? »

The man did not answer, but a fellow diner said to Archambault de Bucquoy:

« He's the captain . . .

— My word, he replied, I see I am among a band of brothers . . . So let me speak freely . . . It's clear you deal in contraband salt . . . Well, bully for you.

— Times are hard, said the captain.

— Well, my brothers! God looks out for those who look after others.

— Sounds like a Huguenot, some of the drinkers whispered to each other.

— The end is upon us, Archambault continued, the old king is on his last legs; his old mistress is running out of steam . . . He has sucked dry all the genius and vigor of France. The major battles these days have been reduced to the spats between Fénelon and Bossuet! The former maintains that “the love of God and of one's neighbor can be pure and disinterested.” The other that “charity, qua charity, should always be founded on the hope for Eternal Bliss.” These, my brothers, are the burning issues of the day! »

Gales of laughter throughout the inn greeted this particular observation. Archambault lowered his head and gulped down his soup without uttering a further word.

The captain tapped him on the shoulder:

« What is your opinion of the religious ecstasies of Mme Guyon?

— Fénelon thought she was a saint and, despite his initial skepticism, Bossuet is now ready to concede that she is, at the very least, divinely inspired.

— Squire, said the captain, I suspect you of being something of an expert in theology.

— I'm done with all that . . . I've decided to become a simple Quietist, especially after having read the following in this book called
Contempt for the World:
“It profits a man more greatly to cultivate himself in the sight of the Lord than to cultivate the earth, which is as ashes to us.”

— A rule of thumb that a lot of people seem to be following these days, said the captain. Who cultivates the earth anymore? . . . People fight, people hunt, people do a bit of salt smuggling . . . or bring in contraband goods from Germany or England, or sell books that have been banned. People with a bit of money on their hands speculate on ground rents; but as for cultivating the earth, it's a job for ignoramuses. »

Archambault seized the irony behind these words. « My friends, he said, I find myself here by sheer chance, and yet I feel I am one of you . . . I come from
one of those ancient military families who have always feuded with kings and who have always been suspected of rebellious tendencies. I myself am no Protestant, but I am among those who have protested against absolute monarchy and all its abuses of authority . . . My family wanted to make a priest out of me . . . but I threw my frock away and became a free man. How many of you are there anyway?

— Six thousand! said the captain.

— I've put in some years of military service myself... I even tried to organize a regiment after having given up the religious life . . . But all the debts of my late uncle crippled the financial resources I had expected from my family . . . M. de Louvois caused us untold anguish!

— My dear sir, said the captain, you don't seem to have lost your pluck . . . There's still a chance to make a go of it. — Where will you be staying in Paris?

— With my aunt, the dowager countess de Bucquoy. »

One of the group got up and said to his table companions, « This is the man we have been looking for. » This man was known to be a member of the auxiliary police; he rushed out to find an officer of the constabulary.

At the very moment that Archambault de Bucquoy, forewarned by his servant, was getting back into his carriage, the officer arrived on the scene with six gendarmes and informed him he was under arrest. The company that had been gathered at the inn spilled out onto the road and tried to put a halt to the proceedings. He wanted to use his pistols but the officer now had reinforcements.

The traveler was placed in his carriage between two officers; the gendarmes followed in the rear. Soon they reached Senlis. The provost judge first questioned all those present in an impartial manner, then said to the traveler:

« You are the abbé de La Bourlie?

— No, your honor.

— You've been down in the Cévennes?