that threatened to build up. The river was becoming less and less navigable and no boat would risk going downstream for the time being. The road seemed no better for the carriages and he gave up the idea of waiting for the next mail-coach.
Confident in his riding ability, Nicolas decided to get hold of a horse and to continue his journey at full gallop. He now had money saved up from the wages paid him by Lardin. He was about forty leagues away from his destination and planned to take the most direct route from Angers to Guérande. Nicolas felt capable of facing up to highwaymen. At this time of year he also had to reckon with the packs of ravenous wolves that roamed around in search of prey and would not hesitate to attack him. But nothing could shake his determination to get there as soon as possible. So he chose a horse, which cost him a king’s ransom – the postmaster was reluctant to risk his precious animals in such weather – and he spurred it on as soon as he was beyond the city walls.
That same evening he slept in Ancenis and the following day headed off into the countryside. He reached the abbey of Saint-Gildas-des-Marais without mishap and was greeted with curiosity by the monks, who were delighted by this unexpected diversion. Near the monastic buildings, some wolves were tearing at pieces of dead flesh; they took no notice of him.
By daybreak he had reached the forest of La Bretesche. This was where his godfather, a friend of the Boisgelin family, used to hunt wild boar every autumn. Only the base of the castle towers could be glimpsed in the distance. He was entering a landscape familiar to him.
During the night the wind had turned into a gale, as often happens in these parts. His horse was struggling. The storm raged so loudly that it almost deafened Nicolas. The sodden track, which bordered a peat bog, was strewn with broken branches. The clouds were so low in the sky that the tips of the tall pine trees seemed to be ripping through them.
Sometimes the fury of the elements would suddenly abate. All was still, and in the restored silence the piercing cry of huge seabirds that had been driven inland could be heard as they hovered over the countryside.
But the storm soon resumed. The ground was covered with scudding shreds of white foam which stopped and then moved on. Some became caught in thickets or in the hollows of tree stumps, like sea snow. Others slid along the still-frozen surface of the marshes. A few leagues away the waves deposited white mounds flecked with yellow onto the beach which the storm tore and broke up, thinning out the remains which it carried inland. Nicolas could taste the salty trace of the ocean on his lips.
The old medieval town appeared through a clump of trees. It stood amidst the marshes like an island cut off from the black and white patchwork of land that surrounded it. Nicolas urged his horse on and galloped up to the walls that ringed the town.
He entered Guérande through the gateway of Sainte-Anne. The town seemed to have been deserted by its inhabitants, and the sound of his horse’s hooves echoing off the ancient stones reverberated through the streets.
In the old market square he stopped in front of a granite house, tied his mount to a ring on the wall and with trembling legs stepped inside. He bumped into Fine, who, on hearing a noise, had hurried to the door to greet him.
‘Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Nicolas! Thank God!’
She embraced him tearfully. Beneath her white coiffe, the wrinkled old face of the woman he had cuddled up to for comfort as a child became tense, her cheekbones purplish.
‘What a terrible misfortune, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Our good master fell ill at Mass, on Christmas night. Two days later he caught a cold when he went to relight the Holy Lamp. Since then, everything has got worse, and now there’s the gout as well. The doctor says it’s started to affect his insides. There’s no hope. His mind’s gone. He was given the last rites yesterday.’
Nicolas’s gaze fell on the chest upon which his guardian’s cloak, hat and cane lay. The sight of these familiar objects brought a lump to his throat.
‘Fine, let’s go to him,’ he said, in a voice choking with emotion.
Small and slight, Fine put her arm around the tall horseman’s waist as they went upstairs. The canon’s bedroom was in semi-darkness, lit only by flames from the fireplace. He lay motionless, his breathing irregular and rasping, with both hands clutching the top of the sheet. Nicolas fell on his knees and whispered:
‘Father, I am here. Can you hear me? I am here.’
He had always addressed his guardian in this way. In truth it really was his father who lay dying there, the person who had taken him in, who had looked after him devotedly and always shown him great affection, whatever the circumstances.
In his despair Nicolas became aware of the love he had always felt for the canon, a love that he had never spoken of because he had taken it so much for granted. Never again would he have the chance to express it. He heard again the canon’s voice say to him gently – and, he now realised, with such tenderness – ‘My dear ward.’
Nicolas took the old man’s hand and kissed it. They remained like this for a long while.
Four o’clock was striking when the canon opened his eyes. A tear formed in the corner of one eye and rolled down his hollow cheek. His lips quivered, he attempted to speak, gave a long sigh and then died. Nicolas’s hand, guided by Fine’s, closed his eyes. His face was serene.
The faithful housekeeper took things in hand with a sort of stubborn determination. As was the custom in her native Cornouaille, the area from which the canon also came, she made the sign of the cross above the dead man’s head, then flung the window wide open to help the soul escape from the body. Then she lit a candle at the head of the bed and sent the maid off to inform the chapter and the banner-bearer’s wife, who was well versed in these ceremonies. When she arrived, the church bell was tolling the death knell. The two women laid out the body, placed one palm against the other and tied the hands together with a rosary. They put a chair at the foot of the bed and placed on it a bowl of holy water and a sprig of laurel.
To Nicolas the hours that followed seemed interminable. Chilled to the bone, he had no awareness of what was going on around him. He had to respond to the greetings of all those who came to pay their last respects at the deathbed. Priests and nuns took it in turn to recite the litany for the dead. As was the custom, Fine served cider and pancakes to the visitors, many of whom remained in the large room, talking quietly.
Monsieur de Ranreuil was among the first to arrive, without Isabelle. Her absence had further stirred Nicolas’s emotions on seeing his godfather again. Beneath his cavalier tone, the marquis had difficulty in disguising his sorrow at the loss of an old friend and, with it, thirty years of companionship. In the throng he scarcely had time to tell Nicolas that Monsieur de Sartine had written to say that he was pleased with him. It was agreed that the young man would go to Ranreuil after the funeral, which was to take place on Sunday.
As the hours slipped slowly by, Nicolas watched the changes to the face of the dead man. The waxen complexion of the early hours had gradually turned copper-coloured, then black, and the shrunken flesh had now hardened into the outlines of a death mask. His feelings of tenderness were disappearing before this decomposing object that could no longer be his guardian. He had to collect himself in order to put aside this impression, but it came back to him several times before the body was placed in its coffin on Saturday morning.
On Sunday the weather was fine and cold. In the afternoon the coffin was borne on a stretcher to the nearby collegiate church. In vain Nicolas looked for Isabelle in the crowd gathered there.
He
