I become a Bookseller--I have many learned and witty Customers but none
to equal the Abbe Jerome Coignard, D. D., M. A.
There is no love will stand separation. The memory of Jahel, smarting
at first, was smoothed down little by little, and nothing remained but a
vague irritation, of which she was no longer the only object.
M. Blaizot aged quickly. He retired to Montrouge, to his cottage in the
fields, and sold me his shop against a life annuity. Having become in
his place the sworn bookseller of the _Image of Saint Catherine_, I took
with me my father and mother, whose cookshop flourished no more. I liked
my humble shop and took care to trim it up. I nailed on the doors
some old Venetian maps and some theses ornamented with allegorical
engravings, which made a decoration old and odd no doubt, but pleasant
to friends of good learning. My knowledge, taking care to hide it
cleverly, was not detrimental to my trade. It would have been worse had
I been a publisher like Marc-Michel Rey, and obliged like him to gain my
living at the expense of the stupidity of the public.
I keep in stock, as they say, the classical authors, and that is a
merchandise in demand in that learned Rue Saint Jacques of which it
would please me one day to write an account of its antiquities and
celebrities. The first Parisian printer established his venerable
presses there. The Cramoisys, whom Guy Patin calls the kings of the Rue
Saint Jacques, published there the works of our historians. Before the
erection of the College of France, the king’s readers, Pierre Danes,
Francois Votable, Ramus, gave their lectures there in a shed which
echoed with the quarrels between the street porters and the washerwomen.
And how can we forget Jean de Meung, who composed in one of the little
houses of this street the _Roman de la Rose_? [Footnote: Jacques
Tournebroche did not know that Francois Villon also dwelt in the Rue
Saint Jacques, at the Cloister Saint Benoit, in a house called the
_Porte Verte_. The pupil of M. Jerome Coignard would no doubt have had
great pleasure in recalling the memory of that ancient poet, who, like
himself, had known various sorts of people.]
I have the whole house at my disposal: it is very old, and dates at
least from the time of the Goths, as may be seen by the wooden joists
crossed on the narrow front and by the mossy tiles. It has but one
window on each floor. The one on the first floor is all the year round
garnished with flowers, strings are attached, and all sorts of climbers
run up them in springtime. My good old mother takes care of this.
It is the window of her room. She can be seen from the street, reading
her prayers in a book printed in big letters over the image of Saint
Catherine. Age, devotion and maternal pride have given her a grand air,
and to see her wax-coloured face under her high white cap one could take
his oath on her being a wealthy citizen’s wife.
My father, in getting old, also acquired some dignity. As he likes
exercise and fresh air I employ him to carry books about town. First
I employed Friar Ange, but he begged of my customers, made them kiss
relics, stole their wine, caressed their servant girls, and left
one-half of my books in the gutters. I soon gave him the sack. But my
good mother, whom he makes believe that he is possessed of secrets for
gaining heaven, gives him soup and wine. He is not a bad man, and in the
end I became somewhat attached to him.
Several learned men and some wits frequent my shop And it is a great
advantage to my trade to be in daily contact with men of merit. Among
those who often come to look at new books and converse familiarly among
themselves there are historians as learned as Tillemont, sacred orators
the equals of Bossuet and Bourdaloue in eloquence, comic and tragic
poets, theologians who unite purity of morals with solidity of doctrine,
the esteemed authors of “Spanish” novels, geometers and philosophers
capable, like M. Descartes, of measuring and weighing the universe.
I admire them, I enjoy the least of their words. But not one, to
my thinking, is equal in genius to my dear master, whom I had the
misfortune to lose on the road to Lyons; not one reminds me of that
incomparable elegance of thought, that sweet sublimity, that astonishing
wealth of a soul always expanding and flowering, like the urns of rivers
represented in marble in gardens; not one gives me that never-failing
spring of science and of morals, wherein I had the happiness to quench
the thirst of my youth, none give me more than a shadow of that grace,
that wisdom, that strength of thought which shone in M. Jérôme Coignard.
I hold him to be the most amiable spirit who has ever flourished on the
earth.