Thin wisps of gray curled to the low ceiling and lingered not far above in four distinct swirls from four worn chairs.

The group of old men were intimately gathered around a small glass table, all pulling at thick, black cigars with brows furrowed and faces fixed in bottomless concentration. Deep single-syllable ruminations and echoing grunts threatened to pierce the profound silence. It had been five minutes since anybody said a word.

The room in which they sat was cramped, but for once it felt like a cavern. The small apartment was garnished with deep oak, stained by the hands of time. Low eaves hung several feet above the four still heads, all so focused on one point that the room might has well have been Notre Dame. Two desks on either side, cluttered with papers and manuscripts that would make both Barnes and Noble salivate, dominated the balance of the room’s open space. The contents were once contained in the attic of the eldest’s barn, but knees stiffened, joints hardened. Now they were in a flat above a mutually adored café thanks to a creaky but usable service elevator once used by the waiters who occupied the space. But all these massive tomes, these works of sheer literary magnitude were at once and completely forgotten. There was now something much more important.

A worn book, criss-crossed with cracks and yellowish in color sat before them, reflecting back like a prism in four pairs of gleaming, excited eyes. These were looks of lean exuberance. This book had made these Frenchmen thirty years younger. The book’s margin was gold, the edges of the pages almost black. A large golden crest sat pressed into the cover, the wax mark long since faded but still recognizable through the imprint: "WM."

For what lay before them was an original Comedies, Histories and Tragedies, the first and definitive collection of William Shakespeare’s work. It was the only book of its kind, worth, according to veiled whispers in dark corners, over seven million Euros. The men dismissed this talk. It was priceless. How it got here was what confused them.
From this book’s loins sprang forth the plays of Shakespeare, which these men had read millions of times. Without this work, Shakespeare would not exist. Each man turned this over in his mind, careful not to ash on history.

“The ‘First Folio,’” came a cracked, incredulous voice from the corner. The Men of Marseilles each craned a reddened neck prolonged by age, antique chairs creaking, the meeting now feeling like a garish, overwrought and altogether silly get-together. Each man eased upon his inquiry.

Tomas, the café’s young owner, had fumbled his way up the dank stairwell. Somebody had forgotten the lock.

“Well, he’s seen it, somebody kill him,” said Auguste, the eldest, surprising the other three as the one who ultimately broke their silence.

Nobody, save a nervous chuckle from Tomas, said anything. The Men of Marseilles turned back to the book, all eyes fixed on this impetuous magnet in the middle of the room.

“No sense in standing there,” said Geraud, now looking out the small window planted deep into the brick, screwing his eyes into the sun and rubbing his weary legs. “Come, sit. I need to stand awhile. Nervous pacing will appease my Docteur, I am sure.”

Tomas obliged and lowered himself closer to what he suspected was the rarest book on Earth.

“Am I to understand this is truly what I think it is?”

“Tomas, if it is not, we are but four old men chasing a whale-sized lark,” Auguste replied, a smile revealing even more creases on a face cracked by time.

“I studied this at the university. I took a class on Shakespeare. I was told it was hidden…”

“In dark alleyways guarded by mythical beasts and the heraldry of heaven’s warriors? The legend is well known,” said a now-pacing Geraud, dragging his left leg behind his right with a noticeable limp. “The question now becomes, why do we have it? Why is it here?”

Silence again canvassed the group. The two men yet to speak shared sidelong glances. Tomas sensed a rift now, could see division. He could tell one of them desired the other to speak. Then one finally did, and almost at once he wished he’d never taken to those steps.


To be continued? This interest anybody?