Читать книгу The Châtelet Apprentice: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #1 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 15

The Loire was kind as far as Angers. Rain which sometimes turned to snow had fallen incessantly and during the overnight stay in Tours the river level had continued to rise. Sometimes, through a break in the fog, a ghost town emerged, grey and lifeless. The banks slipped by unseen. On reaching Angers the barge was caught up in an eddying current. It struck the pier of a bridge, spun around several times and then, out of control and breaking up, it ran aground on a sand bank. The passengers and crew were able to reach the riverbank in a punt.

After reviving himself with some mulled wine at an inn for boatmen, Nicolas made enquiries about possible ways of getting to Nantes. He had been on the barge for several days. Would he reach Guérande in time to see his guardian again? He anxiously assessed the further delays 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 followed the hymns and prayers without thinking, withdrawing 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 a single reply to my letters.’

‘Monsieur, I am the one with grounds for complaint.’

Nicolas’s anger grew in the face of such an unfair remark.

‘I thought you had given me your word. I was very foolish to believe someone so unfaithful, someone …’

He stopped, out of breath. Isabelle looked at him, petrified. Her sea-blue eyes were brimming with tears, whether of anger or of shame he did not know.

‘Monsieur, you seem very skilled in reversing roles.’

‘Your irony hurts me, but you are the unfaithful one. You are the one who made me leave.’

‘Unfaithful? In what way? These words are beyond me. Unfaithful …’

Nicolas began to pace around the room, then suddenly stopped in front of a portrait of a Ranreuil who stared sternly at him from his oval frame.

‘They’re all the same, century after century …’ he muttered under his breath.

‘What are you talking about, and what has it to do with us? Do you think he’s going to come down from his frame and reply to your soliloquising?’

Isabelle suddenly seemed to him frivolous and detached.

‘Unfaithful, yes, you. Unfaithful,’ Nicolas repeated sombrely, drawing closer to her.

He stood over her, furious, reddening, with fists clenched. She was frightened and burst out sobbing. Once again he saw the little girl whose childhood sorrows he used to console and his anger subsided.

‘Isabelle, what is happening to us?’ he asked, taking her by the hand.

The young woman huddled against him. He kissed her.

‘Nicolas,’ she stammered, ‘I love you. But my father told me you were going to Paris to be married. I didn’t want to see you again. I made it known that I was in Nantes, at my aunt’s. I couldn’t believe that you had broken our oath. I felt lost.’

‘How could you have believed such a thing?’

The suffering that had tormented him for so many months suddenly vanished in a burst of happiness. Tenderly he held Isabelle to him. They did not hear the door open.

‘That will do. You forget yourself, Nicolas …’ said a voice behind him.

It was the Marquis de Ranreuil, hunting whip in hand.

For an instant the three figures seemed rooted to the spot like statues. Had time stopped? Was this eternity? Then, everything restarted. Nicolas was to retain a terrible memory of this scene, one that would haunt him at night from then on. He let go of Isabelle and slowly turned to face his godfather.

The two men were the same height and their anger made them even more painfully alike. The marquis was the first to speak.

‘Nicolas, I want you to leave Isabelle alone.’

‘Monsieur, I love her,’ replied the young man in a low tone.

He drew closer to her. She looked at each of them in turn.

‘Father, you misled me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nicolas loves me and I love him.’

‘Isabelle, that is enough. Leave us. I must speak with this young man.’

Isabelle put her hand on Nicolas’s arm and squeezed it. At this heartfelt gesture, he turned pale and faltered. She rushed out, gathering up her flowing dress.

Ranreuil, who had regained his customary calm, said in a low voice:

‘Nicolas, please understand that all this pains me greatly.’

‘Monsieur, I understand nothing.’

‘I no longer wish you to see Isabelle. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, Monsieur, that I am nothing but a foundling, taken in by a good man and that I must disappear.’

He sighed.

‘But know, Monsieur, that I would have laid down my life for you.’

He bowed and was preparing to leave when the marquis stopped him, grasping him by the shoulders.

‘My godson, you cannot understand. Trust me, one day you will. I cannot explain anything to you now.’

Ranreuil suddenly seemed old and tired. Nicolas freed himself and left.

At four o’clock the young man galloped away from Guérande with no hope of ever returning. All he was leaving there was a coffin still awaiting burial and an old woman crying in a grief-stricken house. He was also leaving behind his childhood and his illusions. He would never think back on this senseless journey home.

Like a sleepwalker, he passed through forests and rivers, towns and villages, stopping only to change horses. However, sheer exhaustion forced him to take the fast mail-coach to Chartres.

It was the very day on which old Émilie had spied two suspicious-looking individuals in Montfaucon.