into himself. He examined the stained-glass window above the high altar which portrayed the miracles performed by Saint Aubin, the patron saint of this holy place. The great Gothic arch of predominantly blue glass and stone gradually lost its radiance as the winter shadows lengthened. The sun had disappeared. In the morning it had revealed itself in the glow of sunrise; it had shone in splendour in the glory of midday and now it was declining.
Every man, thought Nicolas, has to go through the cycle of life like this. His gaze fell once more on the coffin draped in a black cloth decorated with silver flames that shimmered in the dim flicker of the candles around the catafalque. He felt overcome once more with sorrow and loneliness.
The church was by now smothered in darkness. Inside, as happens in winter, the granite was weeping. The smoke from the incense and the candles mingled with the moisture oozing from the dark walls. The Dies Irae rang out like a final cry of despair. Shortly, pending a permanent burial place, the sad remains would be set down in the crypt near the twin recumbent figures of Tristan de Carné and his wife.
Nicolas reflected that it was precisely here that he had been abandoned; almost twenty-two years previously Canon Le Floch had found him and taken him in. The idea that his guardian was returning to the earth at this very spot was in some mysterious way a consolation.
Monday was bleak and Nicolas felt the after-effects of the journey and his grief. He could not decide whether to visit the marquis who, after the service, had repeated his desire to see him.
Fine, oblivious to her own suffering, tried her best to take his mind off things. Yet despite all her efforts to cook him his favourite childhood dishes he would not touch them, making do with a piece of bread. He spent part of the day wandering through the marshes, staring at the sea-line merging into the pale horizon. He was overcome with a desire to go away and forget. He even went as far as the village of Batz, climbing up to the top of the church spire, as he always used to with Isabelle. He felt better up there, cut off from the world, looking out over the marshes and the ocean far below.
When he came home, soaked through, he found Master Guiart, the notary, waiting for him with his back to the fire. He asked Nicolas and Fine to listen to the reading of a very short will, the main provisions of which lay in the final section: ‘I die without wealth, having always given to the poor the surplus that God was willing to grant me. The house I dwell in belongs to the chapter. I pray that providence sees to the needs of my ward. To him shall be given my gold repeater watch, to replace the one stolen from him recently in Paris. As to my possessions proper – clothes, furniture, silverware, paintings and books, he will understand that they be sold to procure an annuity at the rate of one in twenty for Mademoiselle Joséphine Pelven, my housekeeper, who for more than thirty years has devoted herself to my service.’
Fine was crying and Nicolas attempted to console her. The notary reminded them that the young man had to pay the servant’s wages, and the doctor’s and apothecary’s fees, as well as for the hangings, chairs and candles for the funeral. Nicolas’s savings were fast diminishing.
After the notary had left he felt like a stranger in his own house and could not bear to see Fine sitting there, grief-stricken. They stayed talking for a long time. She would return to where she came from, as she still had a sister in a village near Quimper, but she was worried above all about what would become of the person she had brought up. One by one the ties linking Nicolas to Guérande were snapping and he was drifting like a boat that had broken its moorings, carried away by swirling currents.
On Tuesday Nicolas at last made up his mind to respond to his godfather’s invitation. He wanted to get away from the house on the old market square; Master Guiart had begun the inventory and valuation appraisement of the deceased’s possessions, and Fine was finishing her packing.
He rode slowly and pensively, keeping his horse at walking pace. The weather was fine again but a hoar frost covered the moorland with white latticework. The ice in the ruts crackled beneath the horse’s hooves.
As he neared Herbignac he remembered the traditional games of soule. This violent and rustic sport, which was as old as the hills, required physical strength, courage, a good pair of lungs and unfailing resilience as kicks and blows rained down on the players. Nicolas’s body still bore the marks. An injury to his right eyebrow had left a scar that was still visible and his left leg, broken when he was kicked with a clog, still caused him pain when the weather turned wet.
Nevertheless he felt a certain elation at the memory of these frenzied runs in which the soulet, a pig’s bladder stuffed with sawdust and rags, had to be carried to the goal. The difficulty was that the playing area had no limits and the person carrying the soulet could be pursued anywhere, even into ponds and streams, and there were many of those in this part of the countryside. Also, punching, butting and hitting the players with a stick was allowed and even encouraged. At the end of every match the exhausted and bloodied combatants came together for some friendly feasting after a trip to a washtub had removed the caking of clay or mud which covered them. Sometimes the chase even continued as far as the banks of the River Vilaine.
While these thoughts were going through his mind, the young man had neared his destination. As he watched the great oaks around the lake and the tops of the castle towers gradually rise up above the moorland, he strengthened his resolve to clear up the mystery of Isabelle’s disappearance.
There had been no news or sign of her since he had left for Paris. At no point had she appeared, not even when Nicolas was in mourning. Perhaps she had forgotten about him, but more cruel than this was his present uncertainty. Although he dreaded the suffering of a definitive separation, he could no longer imagine a future in which his love might still be reciprocated. He was nothing, and his experience in Paris had taught him that birth and wealth always prevailed. His meagre talents counted for little.
The ancient stronghold, set amidst water and trees, was now within hailing distance. Nicolas crossed the first wooden bridge that led him up to the barbican, protected by two towers. He left his horse in the stables, then advanced onto a stone promontory as far as the drawbridge. Compared with the enormous bulk of the building, the entry gate was rather narrow – a reminder of the precautions taken in former times to prevent a rider entering on horseback. The central courtyard, massive and cobbled, lent an air of distinction to the main body of the building flanked by two gigantic towers which occupied its far end.
The chapel bell struck midday. Nicolas, who knew his way around the castle well, pushed open the heavy door of the great hall. A young fair-haired girl, simply clad in a green dress with a lace collar, sat near the fireplace working. At the sound of Nicolas entering she looked up from her sewing.
‘You frightened me, Father,’ she exclaimed without turning round. ‘Was the hunting successful?’
Receiving no reply she became worried, turning to stare into the shadows.
‘Who are you? Who allowed you to enter?’
Nicolas pushed the door shut and removed his hat. She let out a faint cry and restrained herself from rushing into his arms.
‘I see, Isabelle, that now I truly am a stranger at Ranreuil.’
‘Can it be you, Monsieur? How dare you come here after all that you have done?’
Nicolas looked bemused.
‘What have I done, except trust you, Isabelle? Fifteen months ago I had to obey your father and my guardian, and leave without saying goodbye to you. You were, it seems, in Nantes, staying with your aunt. That’s what I was told. I left and during all these months that I’ve been alone in Paris, not a word, not
