The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy Page B

Villon remarkably pleasant for a fashionable author. And François, who could not stand pedants or the overprecious, sensed that the Florentine was a lot more perceptive than he pretended to be. Was he playing the powdered puppet as a mere merchant’s trick or a deeper disguise?
    Federico next observed Colin, who was noisily stuffing himself. His rough-hewn, imposing bulk, his bulging biceps, his heavily scarred face inspired fear at first. But his wide-open eyes, like those of a dim-witted little boy, soon won people over. Playing on this mixture of wildness and innocence, it was he who kept the guards occupied or cajoled the clerks while the Coquillards emptied church coffers and bailiffs’ desks. Their finest coup dated from just before Christmas 1456. Five hundred gold crowns plucked as easily as a sheaf in a cornfield. Colin had stood by the entrance to the chapel of the Collège de Navarre, gesticulating, pontificating, joking, with the wardens looking on incredulously, while inside Tabarie and François had broken into the office.
    Â 
    At the end of the meal, the Florentine ceremoniously handed a book to François. The binding still smelled of alum. The covers were studded with silvery flowers from the stalks of which emerged thin gilded threads applied with a trimmer. In the middle, embedded in the leather itself, a real butterfly spread its translucent wings. The back of the book, slightly marbled, was encrusted with plantlike patterns in mother-of-pearl. The threads were lined with salamander skin and the boards with lizard scales. The smooth waxed covers showed that nobody had ever looked inside the book. François carefully opened the lock with its finely chiseled arabesques. Inside, he found only empty pages, of an excellent texture, much softer than those obtained in a vat. He admired every detail. It was obvious that the talents of several master craftsmen had gone into the work.
    â€œAllow me to give it to you. For the ballads you have not yet written.”
    Caught off guard, François stammered some formal words of gratitude, suspecting nevertheless that such a tribute was not disinterested. A shrewd merchant like Federico did not dispense such generous gifts without some ulterior motive. Had he himself had not done the same to lure Johann Fust? What was this Florentine merchant, whose acquaintance he had made only a few moments earlier, hoping to obtain from him?
    Noticing François’s embarrassment, Federico merely gave him a broad smile. He seized a bottle whose exaggerated curves, the red seals surrounding the neck, the small bubbles blown into the glass itself, promised a choice beverage. Expertly pulling the cork out with his teeth, he poured a few substantial glassfuls. As the connoisseur that he was, François breathed in the aroma, getting ready to praise the color, the body, the flavor. But the Italian abruptly withdrew, summoned by Brother Médard whose hairless chin had appeared suddenly amid the plates and pots.
    On the table, the wings of the butterfly glittered in the light of the oil lamps. François again examined the immaculate binding, the embossing applied with both confidence and finesse. The unusual style of the ornamentation skilfully combined the sharp lines of the insect with the light curves of the gilt around it. Just like the Aramaic lettering he had seen around the Medici coat of arms.

9
    A solitary chandelier hung from the ceiling. Brother Médard carefully laid out his inventory books and pencils. Federico took his seat on the other side of the desk, the precious packages at his feet. Although they were alone in the chapel, the two men spoke in low voices.
    â€œYou certainly know how to toady. Master Villon was genuinely touched. Have you read his works, then?”
    â€œNot a line, my dear Médard. All I know is that—”
    â€œOne moment, please,” the dwarf muttered as he started writing. “On this twelfth day of