The sale begins. The pros and the most avid bidders crowd around a big wooden table dragged out from the garage. This, along with the wooden chest where the auctioneer stands, is the auction block.
The rest of us line the stone walls separating the driveway from a raised garden. This gives us a bird’s eye view of the table and the auctioneer, a highly trained professional who often behaves like a carny. I’m standing on the edge and every once in the while an impatient bidder pushes forward, throwing me off balance, forcing me, if I hope to avoid a fall, to take a quick step backwards into the flower bed where well-tended rose bushes are taking their winter rest.
But this pushing and jostling is all part of the game, a game of combat. An auction is physical; literally, you must be on your toes, poised for action, eyes and ears open, arms stretched forward to grab your newly acquired possessions, passed from the auction table above the heads of the crowd once the auctioneer, with three strikes of his gavel, has proclaimed “Adjugé, vendu!” (going, going, gone).
It rains, the rain stops, a crisp west wind blows in clear skies. The sale is moving fast. Little by little, I begin to follow and understand, with regret—my feet are already numb, that the objects that interest me will not go on sale till afternoon.
For the moment, up for auction are a lifetime of knickknacks, paintings, statuettes, busts, a porcelain dinner service and many sets of everyday stoneware, copper pots and pans, several dozen wine carafes, carved African stools and masks, a collection of minerals and one of magnificent conch shells, a full collection of the acts of the historical society of le Perche, a few fine and ancient maps of the region, and some delicate 18th century lace, carefully mounted and framed.
I follow the proceedings, moving fast. Some items, such as the lace and a pre-revolutionary map of le Perche go for several hundred euros. Others, sold by lots piled in cardboard boxes, for twenty or thirty, and I begin to understand that those boxes are a lot like grab bags. Nobody, not even the auctioneer, knows exactly what you’re going to get: there may be a treasure hidden among the crockery and bibelots.
A woman standing next to me hits the jackpot. Rooting through her box of glass and stoneware, she pulls out two crystal wine carafes with the imprint of Cristal Saint-Louis, the oldest glassmakers in Europe. For thirty euros she walks away with the prize.
I watch her bid. She is experienced. She knows what she wants. She buys lot after lot, and her cardboard boxes, buckling beneath the weight of their charge, are passed to her and then piled up on the lawn behind us or at the foot of the wall where we stand.
When I ask her if she is in the antique business, she vehemently denies it, explaining she is buying for her children, for nieces and nephews, all setting themselves up in life.
I know she is lying; she must know I know, but this is not a world where you trust your neighbor. Everyone at the sale is a potential rival and she has no idea who I am. And who knows? I could be a secret agent from internal revenue sent to crackdown on antique dealers who, notoriously, hide much of their business from the taxman.
The young man standing on the other side of me is more forthcoming. He sells on line and is looking for objects from the first half of the 20th century. He buys an art deco vase, paying more than 200 euros, and a telephone from the 1930’s. He’ll post these items on his site and, I hope for him, make a profit.
There are other professionals bidding on what to my eye are atrocities, a horrible 16th century statue of Sainte Barbe, a Christian martyr who had her head and her breasts cut off, and an equally ugly signed 19th century terra cotta bust. Both go for close to 1,000 euros.
Then it is time for lunch. Because this is France and no one can imagine going without a hot meal, the doors of the maison bourgeoise are locked and the crowd disperses to cars or to the center of town. I head for the bistro where I had a coffee in the morning. Packed, all the tables reserved, but if I’d come back in about a half hour…
I explore the village of Longny-au-Perche, discover a 16th century church, Saint Martin, with a painted wooden nave. At the edge of town, I walk past a Renaissance chapel where each year, on September 8th, a pilgrimage takes place to venerate the Pieta inside. There are also many streams and old mills with mill wheels turning and half-timbered houses that look like they belong to Shakespeare’s time.
The village is sleepy, many storefronts are empty, but time passes quickly, despite the damp cold, and when I return to the restaurant, a little table is waiting for me.
And once again I have a bird’s eye view of the auctioneer. He and his employees dine together. He has removed his padded coat, and beneath it wears a mustard-colored hunting jacket that reminds me of a famous 1939 French film, Jean Renoir’s “Les règles du jeu” (The Rules of the Game), where aristocrats and the wealthy gather for a weekend of hunting in a country château. He could be a part of that world and several remarks he makes during the sale make me feel he regrets its passing.
While I observe, I warm up and eat an excellent salade de gésiers, a chicken gizzard salad with two vinaigrettes, one raspberry and the other mustard, both extremely fine. I drink a glass of red wine and, for you, dear readers, sample a dessert. I try the homemade lemon tart with freshly whipped cream, a “délice.”
But then it’s back to the cold. Clear skies have replaced the rain and the sun shines on me, bringing me a stroke of luck. Though most of the furniture will be auctioned off inside, the armchairs I want are already out on the auction block. I take out my number and I’m ready to bid.
Perhaps not everybody is back from lunch. Perhaps wooden armchairs are not a hot item. For a little more than 100 euros, I walk away with two beautiful cherry-wood chairs that, once I get them home, immediately find their place in my living room.
Now I’m ready for the next sale. I’m ready to swoop down on another man’s life and pick over the remains, acutely aware that someday my precious belongings will suffer the same fate.
