The Châtelet Apprentice by Jean-François Parot Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
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    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 playerswith 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.
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    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 centralcourtyard, 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